.  . 


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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the 

FRANCIS  P.  FARQUHAR 
EXPLORATION  LIBRARY 

Gift  of 

THE  MARJORY  BRIDGE  FARQUHAR 
1972  TRUST 


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THE 

MOUNTAINS 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD 
WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  FOREST 

THE  BLAZED  TRAIL 

THE  SILENT  PLACES   Etc 

WITH  PICTURES  BY  FERNAND  LUNGREN 

I. — The    Ridge    Trail 


SIX  trails  lead  to  the  main  ridge. 
They  are  all  good  trails,  so  that 
even  the  casual  tourist  in  the  little 
Spanish-American  town  on  the  seacoast 
need  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the 
ascent.  In  some  spots  they  contract  to 
an  arm's  length  of  space,  outside  of 
which  limit  they  drop  sheer  away ;  else 
where  they  stand  up  on  end,  zigzag  in 
lacets  each  more  hair-raising  than  the 
last,  or  fill  to  demoralization  with  loose 
boulders  and  shale.  A  fall  on  the  part 
of  your  horse  would  mean  a  more  than 
serious  accident ;  but  Western  horses  do 
not  fall.  The  major  premise  stands  : 
even  the  casual  tourist  has  no  real  rea 
son  for  fear,  however  scared  he  may 
become. 

Our  favorite  route  to  the  main  ridge 
was  by  a  way  called  the  Cold  Spring 
Trail.  We  used  to  enjoy  taking  visitors 
up  it,  mainly  because  you  come  on  the 
top  suddenly,  without  warning.  Then 
we  collected  remarks.  Everybody,  even 
the  most  stolid,  said  something. 

1  Copyright,  1904,  by  the   Outlook  Company,  New 
York. 


You  rode  three  miles  on  the  flat,  two 
in  the  leafy  and  gradually  ascending 
creek-bed  of  a  canon,  a  half  hour  of 
laboring  steepness  in  the  overarching 
mountain  lilac  and  laurel.  There  you 
came  to  a  great  rock  gateway  which 
seemed  the  top  of  the  world.  At  the 
gateway  was  a  Bad  Place  where  the 
ponies  planted  warily  their  little  hoofs, 
and  the  visitor  played  "  eyes  front,"  and 
besought  that  his  mount  should  not 
stumble. 

Beyond  the  gateway  a  lush  level  canon 
into  which  you  plunged  as  into  a  bath; 
then  again  the  laboring  trail,  up  and 
always  up  toward  the  blue  California 
sky,  out  of  the  lilacs  and  laurels  and 
redwood  chaparral  into  the  manzanita, 
the  Spanish  bayonet,  the  creamy  yucca, 
and  the  fine  angular  shale  of  the  upper 
regions.  Beyond  the  apparent  summit 
you  found  always  other  summits  yet  to 
be  climbed.  And  all  at  once,  like  thrust 
ing  your  shoulders  out  of  a  hatchway, 
you  looked  over  the  top. 

Then  came  the  remarks.  Some  swore 
softly ;  some  uttered  appreciative  ejac- 

261 


262 


The  Outlook 


ulation ;  some  shouted  aloud ;  some 
gasped ;  one  man  uttered  three  times 
the  word  "  Oh  " — once  breathlessly,  Oh  ! 
once  in  awakening  appreciation,  Oh ! 
once  in  wild  enthusiasm,  OH  !  Then 
invariably  they  fell  silent  and  looked. 

For  the  ridge,  ascending  from  seaward 
in  a  gradual  coquetry  of  foot-hills,  broad 
low  ranges,  cross-systems,  canons,  little 
flats,  and  gentle  ravines,  inland  dropped 
off  almost  sheer  to  the  river  below.  And 
from  under  your  very  feet  rose,  range 
after  range,  tier  after  tier,  rank  after  rank, 
in  increasing  crescendo  of  wonderful 
tinted  mountains  to  the  main  crest  of  the 
Coast  Ranges,  the  blue  distance,  the 
mightiness  of  California's  western  sys 
tems.  The  eye  followed  them  up  and  up, 
and  farther  and  farther,  with  the  accumu 
lating  emotion  of  a  wild  rush  on  a  tobog 
gan.  There  came  a  point  where  the 
fact  grew  to  be  almost  too  big  for  the 
appreciation,  just  as  beyond  a  certain 
point  speed  seems  to  become  unbear 
able.  It  left  you  breathless,  wonder- 
stricken,  awed.  You  could  do  nothing 
but  look,  and  look,  and  look  again, 
tongue-tied  by  the  impossibility  of  doing 
justice  to  what  you  felt.  And  in  the 
far  distance,  finally,  your  soul,  grown 
big  in  a  moment,  came  to  rest  on 
the  great  precipices  and  pines  of  the 
greatest  mountains  of  all,  close  under 
the  sky. 

In  a  little,  after  the  change  had  come 
to  you,  a  change  definite  and  enduring, 
which  left  your  inner  processes  forever 
different  from  what  they  had  been,  you 
turned  sharp  to  the  west  and  rode  five 
miles  along  the  knife-edge  Ridge  Trail 
to  where  Rattlesnake  Canon  led  you 
down  and  back  to  your  accustomed 
environment. 

To  the  left  as  you  rode  you  saw,  far 
on  the  horizon,  rising  to  the  height  of 
your  eye,  the  mountains  of  the  channel 
islands.  Then  the  deep  sapphire  of  the 
Pacific,  fringed  with  the  soft,  unchang 
ing  white  of  the  surf  and  the  yellow  of 
the  shore.  Then  the  town  like  a  little 
map,  and  the  lush-  greens  of  the  wide 
meadows,  the  fruit-groves,  the  lesser 
ranges — all  vivid,  fertile,  brilliant,  and 
pulsating  with  vitality.  You  filled  your 
senses  with  it,  steeped  them  in  the 
beauty  of  it.  And  at  once,  by  a  mere 


turn  of  the  eyes,  from  the  almost  crude 
insistence  of  the  bright  primary  color  of 
life,  you  faced  the  tenuous  azures  of 
distance,  the  delicate  mauves  and  ame 
thysts,  the  lilacs  and  saffrons  of  the  arid 
country. 

This  was  the  wonder  we  never  tired 
of  seeing  for  ourselves,  of  showing  to 
others.  And  often,  academically,  per 
haps  a  little  wistfully,  as  one  talks  of 
something  to  be  dreamed  of  but  never 
enjoyed,  we  spoke  of  how  fine  it  would 
be  to  ride  down  into  that  land  of  mystery 
and  enchantment,  to  penetrate  one  after 
another  the  canons  dimly  outlined  in  the 
shadows  cast  by  the  westering  sun,  to 
cross  the  mountains  lying  outspread  in 
easy  grasp  of  the  eye,  to  gain  the  distant 
blue  Ridge,  and  see  with  our  own  eyes 
what  lay  beyond. 

For  to  its  other  attractions  the  pros 
pect  added  that  of  impossibility,  of  un- 
attainableness.  These  rides  of  ours 
were  day  rides.  We  had  to  get  home 
by  nightfall.  Our  horses  had  to  be  fed, 
ourselves  to  be  housed.  We  had  not 
time  to  continue  on  down  the  other  side 
whither  the  trail  led.  At  the  very  and 
literal  brink  of  achievement  we  were 
forced  to  turn  back. 

Gradually  the  idea  possessed  us.  We 
promised  ourselves  that  some  day  we 
would  explore.  In  our  after-dinner 
smokes  we  spoke  of  it.  Occasionally, 
from  some  hunter  or  forest-ranger,  we 
gained  little  items  of  information,  we 
learned  the  fascination  of  musical  names 
— Mono  Canon,  Patrera  Don  Victor, 
Lloma  Paloma,  Patrera  Madulce,  Cuya- 
mas,  became  familiar  to  us  as  syllables. 
We  desired  mightily  to  body  them  forth 
to  ourselves  as  facts.  The  extent  of 
our  mental  vision  expanded.  We  heard 
of  other  mountains  far  beyond  these 
farthest — mountains  whose  almost  unex 
plored  vastnesses  contained  great  forests, 
mighty  valleys,  strong  watercourses, 
beautiful  hanging-meadows,  deep  canons 
of  granite,  eternal  snows — mountains 
so  extended,  so  wonderful,  that  their 
secrets  offered  whole  summers  of  soli 
tary  exploration.  We  came  to  feel  their 
marvel,  we  came  to  respect  the  inferno 
of  the  Desert  that  hemmed  them  in. 
Shortly  we  graduated  from  the  indefi- 
niteness  of  railroad  maps  to  the  intrica- 


rHE   TOP    OF    THE    WORLD" 


DRAWN   BY  FERNAND  LUNfiREI 


THE    TRAIL 


The   Mountains 


265 


cies  of  geological  survey  charts.     The 
fever  was  on  us.     We  must  go. 

A  dozen  of  us  desired.     Three  of  us 


went ;  and  of  the  manner  of  our  going, 
and  what  you  must  know  who  would  do 
likewise,  I  shall  try  here  to  tell. 


II. — On    Equipment 


If  you  would  travel  far  in  the  great 
mountains  where  the  trails  are  few  and 
bad,  you  will  need  a  certain  unique  expe 
rience  and  skill.  Before  you  dare  ven 
ture  forth  without  a  guide,  you  must  be 
able  to  do  a  number  of  things,  and  to 
do  them  well. 

First  and  foremost  of  all,  you  must  be 
possessed  of  that  strange  sixth  sense 
best  described  as  the  sense  of  direction. 
By  it  you  always  know  about  where  you 
are.  It  is  to  some  degree  a  memory  for 
back-tracks  and  landmarks,  but  to  a 
greater  extent  an  instinct  for  the  lay  of 
the  country,  for  relative  bearings,  by 
which  you  are  able  to  make  your  way 
across-lots  back  to  your  starting-place. 
It  is  not  an  uncommon  faculty,  yet  some 
hick  it  utterly.  If  you  are  one  of  the 
latter  class,  do  not  venture,  for  you  will 
get  lost  as  sure  as  shooting,  and  being 
lost  in  the  mountains  is  no  joke. 

Some  men  possess  it ;  others  do  not. 
The  distinction  seems  to  be  almost  arbi 
trary.  It  can  be  largely  developed,  but 
only  in  those  with  whom  original  en 
dowment  of  the  faculty  makes  develop 
ment  possible.  No  matter  how  long  a 
direction-blind  man  frequents  the  wilder 
ness,  he  is  never  sure  of  himself.  Nor 
is  the  lack  any  reflection  on  the  intelli 
gence.  I  once  traveled  in  the  Black 
Hills  with  a  young  fellow  who  himself 
frankly  confessed  that,  after  much  ex 
periment,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  could  not  "find  himself."  He 
asked  me  to  keep  near  him,  and  this  I  did 
as  well  as  I  could  ;  but  even  then,  three 
times  during  the  course  of  ten  days  he 
lost  himself  completely  in  the  tumultuous 
upheavals  and  canons  of  that  badly 
mixed  region.  Another,  an  old  grouse- 
hunter,  walked  twice  in  a  circle  within 
the  confines  of  a  thick  swamp  about  two 
miles  square.  On  the  other  hand,  many 
exhibit  almost  marvelous  skill  in  striking 
a  bee-line  for  their  objective  point,  and 
can  always  tell  you,  even  after  an  en 
grossing  and  wandering  hunt,  exactly 
where  camp  lies.  And  I  know  nothing 


more  discouraging  than  to  look  up  after 
a  long,  hard  day  to  find  your  landmarks 
changed  in  appearance,  your  choice 
widened  to  at  least  five  diverging  and 
similar  canons,  your  pockets  empty  of 
food,  and  the  chill  mountain  twilight 
descending. 

Analogous  to  this  is  the  ability  to  fol 
low  a  dim  trail.  A  trail  in  the  moun 
tains  often  means  merely  a  way  through, 
a  route  picked  out  by  some  prospector, 
and  followed  since  at  long  intervals  by 
chance  travelers. 

It  may,  moreover,  mean  the  only  way 
through.  Missing  it  will  bring  you  to 
ever-narrowing  ledges,  until  at  last  you 
end  at  a  precipice,  and  there  is  no  room 
to  turn  your  horses  around  for  the  return. 
Some  of  the  great  box  canons  thousands 
of  feet  deep  are  practicable  by  but  one 
passage — and  that  steep  and  ingenious 
in  its  utilization  of  ledges,  crevices, 
little  ravines,  and  "  hog's-backs  ;''  and 
when  the  only  indications  to  follow  con 
sist  of  the  dim  vestiges  left  by  your  last 
predecessor,  perhaps  years  before,  the 
affair  becomes  one  of  considerable  skill 
and  experience.  You  must  be  -srble  to 
pick  out  scratches  made  by  shod  hoofs 
on  the  granite,  depressions  almost  filled 
in  by  the  subsequent  fall  of  decayed 
vegetation,  excoriations  on  fallen  trees. 
You  must  have  the  sense  to  know  at  once 
when  you  have  overrun  these  indications, 
and  the  patience  to  turn  back  immedi 
ately  to  your  last  certainty,  there  to 
pick  up  the  next  clue,  even  if  it  should 
take  you  the  rest  of  the  day.  In  short, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you  be  at 
least  a  persistent  tracker. 

Parenthetically ;  having  found  the 
trail,  be  charitable.  Blaze  it,  if  there 
are  trees  ;  otherwise  "  monument  "  it  by 
piling  rocks  on  top  of  one  another. 
Thus  will  those  who  come  after  bless 
your  unknown  shade. 

Third,  you  must  know  horses.  I  do 
not  mean  that  you  should  be  a  horse- 
show  man,  with  a  knowledge  of  points 
and  pedigrees.  But  you  must  learn 


266 


The  Outlook 


exactly  what  they  can  and  cannot  do  in 
the  matters  of  carrying  weights,  making 
distance,  enduring  without  deterioration 
hard  climbs  in  high  altitudes  ;  what  they 
can  or  cannot  get  over  in  the  way  of  bad 
places.  This  last  is  not  always  a  matter 
of  appearance  merely.  Some  bits  of 
trail,  seeming  impassable  to  anything 
but  a  goat,  a  Western  horse  will  negotiate 
easily ;  while  others  not  particularly 
terrifying  in  appearance  offer  complica 
tions  of  abrupt  turn  or  a  single  bit  of 
unstable,  leg-breaking  footing  which 
renders  them  exceedingly  dangerous.. 
You  must,  moreover,  be  able  to  manage 
your  animals  to  the  best  advantage  in 
suc!i  bad  places.  Of  course  you  must 
in  the  beginning  have  been  wise  as  to 
the  selection  of  the  horses. 

Fourth,  you  must  know  good  horse- 
feed  when  you  see  it.  Your  animals  are 
depending  entirely  on  the -> country;  for 
of  course  you  are  carrying  no  dry  feed 
for  them.  Their  pasturage  will  present 
itself  under  a  variety  of  aspects,  all  of 
which  you  must  recognize  with  certainty. 
Some  of  the  greenest,  lushest,  most  sat- 
isfying-looking  meadows  grow  nothing 
but  water-grasses  of  large  bulk  but  small 
nutrition  ;  while  apparently  barren  tracts 
often  conceal  small  but  strong  growths 
of  great  value.  You  must  differentiate 
these. 

Fifth,  you  must  possess  the  ability  to 
pare  a  hoof,  fit  a  shoe  cold,  nail  it  in 
place.  A  bare  hoof  does  not  last  long 
on  the  granite,  and  you  are  far  from  the 
nearest  blacksmith.  Directly  in  line 
with  this,  you  must  have  the  trick  of 
picking  up  and  holding  a  hoof  without 
being  kicked,  and  you  must  be  able  to 
throw  and  tie  without  injuring  him  any 
horse  that  declines  to  be  shod  in  any 
other  way. 

Last,  you  must  of  course  be  able  to 
pack  a  horse  well,  and  must  know  four 
or  five  of  the  most  essential  pack 
"  hitches." 

With  this  personal  equipment  you 
ought  to  be  able  to  get  through  the  coun 
try.  It  comprises  the  absolutely  essential. 

But,  further,  for  the  sake  of  the  highest 
efficiency,  you  should  add,  as  finish  to 
your  mountaineer's  education,  certain 
other  items.  A  knowledge  of  the  habits 
of  deer  and  the  ability  to  catch  trout  with 


fair  certainty  are  almost  a  necessity 
when  far  from  the  base  of  supplies. 
Occasionally  the  trail  goes  to  pieces 
entirely :  there  you  must  know  something 
of  the  handling  of  an  ax  and  pick.  Learn 
how  to  swim  a  horse.  You  will  have  to 
take  lessons  in  camp-fire  cookery.  Other 
wise  employ  a  guide.  Of  course  your 
lungs,  heart,  and  legs  must  be  in  good 
condition. 

As  to  outfit,  certain  especial  conditions 
will  differentiate  your  needs  from  those 
of  forest  and  canoe  travel. 

You  will  in  the  changing  altitudes  be 
exposed  to  greater  variations  in  temper 
ature.  At  morning  you  may  travel  in 
the  hot,  arid  foot-hills  ;  at  noon  you  will 
be  in  the  cool  shades  of  the  big  pines ; 
towards  evening  you  may  wallow  through 
snowdrifts ;  and  at  dark  you  may  camp 
where  morning  will  show  you  icicles 
hanging  from  the  brinks  of  little  water 
falls.  Behind  your  saddle  you  will  want 
to  carry  a  sweater,  or,  better  still,  a  buck 
skin  waistcoat.  Your  arms  are  never 
cold,  anyway,  and  the  pockets  of  such  a 
waistcoat,  made  many  and  deep,  are 
handy  receptacles  forsmokables,  matches, 
cartridges,  and  the  like.  For  the  night 
time,  when  the  cold  creeps  down  from 
the  high  peaks,  you  should  provide  your 
self  with  a  suit  of  very  heavy  underwear 
and  an  extra  sweater  or  a  buckskin  shirt. 
The  latter  is  lighter,  softer,  and  more 
impervious  to  the  wind  than  the  sweater. 
Here  again  I  wish  to  place  myself  on 
record  as  opposed  to  a  coat.  It  is  a 
useless  ornament,  assumed  but  rarely, 
and  then  only  as  substitute  for  a  handier 
garment. 

Inasmuch  as  you  will  be  a  great  deal 
called  on  to  handle  abrading  and  some 
times  frozen  ropes,  you  will  want  a  pair 
of  heavy  buckskin  gauntlets.  An  extra 
pair  of  stout  high-laced  boots  with  small 
Hungarian  hob-nails  will  come  handy. 
It  is  marvelous  how  quickly  leather 
wears  out  in  the  down-hill  friction  of 
granite  and  shale.  I  once  found  the 
heels  of  a  new  pair  of  shoes  almost 
ground  away  by  a  single  giant-strides 
descent  of  a  steep  shale-covered  thirteen- 
thousand-foot  mountain.  Having  no 
others,  I  patched  them  with  hair-covered 
rawhide  and  a  bit  of  horseshoe.  It  suf 
ficed,  but  was  a  long  and  disagreeable 


DRAWN  BY  FERNAND  LUNGREN 


REPLENISHING    THE   LARDER 


268 


The  Outlook 


[4  June 


job,  which  an  extra  pair  would  have 
obviated. 

Balsam  is  practically  unknown  in  the 
high  hills,  and  the  rocks  are  especially 
hard.  Therefore  you  will  take,  in  addi 
tion  to  your  gray  army-blanket,  a  thick 
quilt  or  comforter  to  save  your  bones. 
This,  with  your  saddle-blankets  and  pads 
as  foundation,  should  give  you  ease — if 
you  are  tough.  Otherwise  take  a  second 
quilt. 

A  tarpaulin  of  heavy  canvas  17x6 
feet  goes  under  you,  and  can  be,  if  nec 
essary,  drawn  up  to  cover  your  head. 
We  never  used  a  tent.  Since  you  do 
not  have  to  pack  your  outfit  on  your 
own  back,  you  can,  if  you  choose,  include 
a  small  pillow.  Your  other  personal 
belongings  are  those  you  would  carry 
into  the  Forest.  I  have  elsewhere  de 
scribed  what  they  should  be. 

Now  as  to  the  equipment  for  your 
horses. 

The  most  important  point  for  your 
self  is  your  riding-saddle.  The  cowboy 
or  military  style  and  seat  are  the  only 
practicable  ones.  Perhaps  of  these  two 
the  cowboy  saddle  is  the  better,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  often  in  roping  or 
leading  a  refractory  horse  the  horn  is  a 
great  help.  For  steep-trail  work  the 
double  cinch  is  preferable  to  the  single. 
as  it  need  not  be  pulled  so  tight  to  hold 
the  saddle  in  place. 

Your  riding-bridle  you  will  make  of 
an  ordinary  halter,  by  riveting  two  snaps 
to  the  lower  part  of  the  head-piece,  just 
above  the  corners  of  the  horse's  mouth. 
These  are  snapped  into  the  rings  of  the 
bit.  At  night  you  unsnap  the  bit,  re 
move  it  and  the  reins,  and  leave  the 
halter  part  on  the  horse.  Each  animal, 
riding  and  packing,  has  furthermore  a 
short  lead-rope  attached  always  to  his 
halter-ring. 

Of  pack-saddles  the  ordinary  sawbuck- 
tree  is  by  all  odds  the  best,  provided  it 
fits.  It  rarely  does.  If  you  can  adjust 
the  wood  accurately  to  the  anatomy  of 
the  individual  horse,  so  that  the  side- 
pieces  bear  evenly  and  smoothly,  with 
out  gouging  the  withers  or  charing  the 
back,  you  are  possessed  of  the  handiest 
machine  made  for  the  purpose.  Should 
individual  fitting  prove  impracticable, 
get  an  old  low  California  riding-tree, 


and  have  a  blacksmith  bolt  an  upright 
spike  on  the  cantle.  You  can  hang  the 
loops  of  the  kyacks  or  alforjas — the 
sacks  slung  on  either  side  the  horse — 
from  the  pommel  and  this  iron  spike. 
Whatever  the  saddle  chosen,  it  should 
be  supplied  with  breast-straps,  breech 
ing,  and  two  good  cinches. 

The  k)'-acks  or  alforjas  just  mentioned 
are  made  either  of  heavy  canvas  or  of 
rawhide  shaped  square  and  dried  over 
boxes.  After  drying,  the  boxes  are 
removed,  leaving  the  stiff  rawhide  like 
small  trunks  open  at  the  top.  I  prefer 
the  canvas,  for  the  reason  that  they  can 
be  folded  and  packed  for  railroad  trans 
portation.  If  a  stiffer  receptacle  is 
wanted  for  miscellaneous  loose  small 
articles,  you  can  insert  a  soap-box  inside 
the  canvas.  It  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  rawhide  will  stand  rougher  usage. 

Probably  the  point  now  of  greatest 
importance  is  that  of  saddle-padding. 
A  sore  back  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  induce — three  hours'  chafing 
will  turn  the  trick — and  once  it  is  done 
you  are  in  trouble  for  a  month.  No 
precautions  or  pains  are  too  great  to 
take  in  assuring  your  pack-animals 
against  this.  On  a  pinch,  you  will  give 
up  cheerfully  part  of  your  bedding  to 
the  cause.  However,  two  good-quality 
woolen  blankets  properly  and  smoothly 
folded,  a  pad  made  of  two  ordinary 
collar-pads  sewed  parallel  by  means  of 
canvas  strips  in  such  a  manner  as  to  lie 
along  both  sides  of  the  backbone,  a 
well-fitted  saddle,  and  care  in  packing 
will  nearly  always  suffice.  I  have  gone 
months  without  having  to  doctor  a  single 
abrasion. 

You  will  furthermore  want  a  pack- 
cinch  and  a  pack-rope  for  each  horse. 
The  former  are  of  canvas  or  webbing 
provided  with  a  ring  at  one  end  and  a 
big  bolted  wooden  hook  at  the  other. 
The  latter  should  be  half-inch  lines  of 
good  quality.  Thirty-three  feet  is  enough 
for  packing  only  ;  but  we  usually  bought 
them  forty  feet  long,  so  they  could  be 
used  also  as  picket-ropes.  Do  not  fail 
to  include  several  extra.  They  are 
always  fraying  out,  getting  broken,  being 
cut  to  free  a  fallen  horse,  or  becoming 
lost. 

Besides  the  picket-ropes,  you  will  also 


1904] 


The   Path  of  the  White  Cow 


269 


provide  for  each  horse  a  pair  of  strong 
hobbles.  Take  them  to  a  harness-maker 
and  have  him  sew  inside  each  ankle- 
band  a  broad  strip  of  soft  wash-leather 
twice  the  width  of  the  band.  This  will 
save  much  chafing.  Some  advocate 
sheepskin  with  the  wool  on,  but  this  I 
have  found  tends  to  soak  up  water  or  to 
freeze  hard.  At  least  two  loud  cow 
bells  with  neck-straps  are  handy  to  assist 
you  in  locating  whither  the  bunch  may 
have  strayed  during  the  night.  They 
should  be  hung  on  the  loose  horses  most 
inclined  to  wander. 

Accidents  are  common  in  the  hills. 
The  repair-kit  is  normally  rather  com 
prehensive.  Buy  a  number  of  extra  lati- 
gos,  or  cinch-straps.  Include  many  cop 
per  rivets  of  all  sizes — they  are  the  best 
quick-repair  known  for  almost  every 


thing,  from  putting  together  a  smashed 
pack-saddle  to  cobbling  a  worn-out  boot. 
Your  horseshoeing  outfit  should  be  com 
plete  with  paring-knife,  rasp,  nail-set, 
clippers,  hammer,  nails,  and  shoes.  The 
latter  will  be  the  malleable  soft  iron, 
low-calked  "  Goodenough,"  which  can 
be  fitted  cold.  Purchase  a  dozen  front 
shoes  and  a  dozen  and  a  half  hind  shoes. 
The  latter  wear  out  faster  on  the  trail. 
A  box  or  so  of  hob-nails  for  your  own 
boots,  a  waxed  end  and  awl,  a  whetstone, 
a  file,  and  a  piece  of  buckskin  for  strings 
and  patches  complete  the  list. 

Thus  equipped,  with  your  grub  sup 
ply,  your  cooking  utensils,  your  personal 
effects,  your  rifle,  and  your  fishing-tackle, 
you  should  be  able  to  go  anywhere  that 
man  and  horses  can  go,  entirely  self- 
reliant,  independent  of  the  towns. 


The    Path   of  the   White    Cow 

By  Ella  F.   Mosby 


Narrow  and  winding  the  pathway, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  wood  ; 
It  ran  through  the  beds  of  fern, 

Where  the  spreading  beeches  stood — 
Beeches  whose  tiny  leaf-buds 

Were  just  unfurling  their  wings. 
With  a  flutter,  a  whisper,  a  stirring, 

A  thousand  soft  murmurings! 

The  WThite  Cow  browsed  as  she  moved 

Under  the  boughs  at  her  ease, 
The  feathery  fronds  of  the  fern 

Rustling  about  her  knees. 
Before  her  the  brooklet  widened, 

A  placid  and  shadowy  pool, 
Or  netted  the  darting  minnows 

In  the  shallows  shining  and  cool. 

Blue  was  the  earth  with  violets, 

And  white  with  the  stars  between  ; 
Anemones,  nodding  softly, 

Were  weaving  a  leafy  screen  ; 
While  under  dry  leaves  of  autumn 

The  arbutus,  still  in  bloom — 
Exquisite,  rosy,  and  fragrant — 

Scattered  the  winter's  gloom. 

Tingle,  ling — the  cow  crops  a  blossom 

Blooming  low  in  the  grass, 
Or  nibbles  the  pungent  and  yellow 

Buds  of  the  sassafras. 


She  moves  on  slow  in  the  gloaming ; 

You  hear  the  brook  as  it  flows — 
All  at  once  are  the  meadows  enchanted, 

And  a  wind  of  memory  blows 

In  the  boy's  heart  as  he  loiters; 

He  is  counting  them,  name  by  name  ; 
The  bell  seems  telling  their  story — 

Cadmus,  of  ancient  fame, 
Who  followed  the  White  Cow  truly 

As  she  moved  through  sunlight  and 

shade, 
By  river  and  mountain  and  forest, 

And  never  her  footsteps  strayed, 

Till  she  reached  a  spot  where  Cadmus 

Should  build  a  marvelous  town, 
And  rule  a  powerful  kingdom, 

Where  the  White  Cow  lay  down  1 
The  white  bull  swam  with  Europa 

Safe  through  the  breakers'  foam  ; 
And  lo,  the  milk-white  heifer, 

Was  driven  by  Juno  to  roam 

Far  from  the  pastures  familiar 

To  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile, 
Where  from  her  blood  a  Deliverer 

Rose,  without  hatred  or  guile. 
Jingle,  jangle,  jingle  ! 

The  White  Cow  quickens  her  pace ; 
She  remembers  the  calf  in  the  barnyard, 

And  the  little  red  spot  in  its  face ! 


The  Feet  of  the  Young  Men' 

By    Rudyard    Kipling 

With  Drawings  by  Alden  Peirson 

Now  the  Four-way   Lodge  is  opened,  now  the  Hunting 

Winds  are  loose — 

Now  the  Smokes  of  Spring  go  up  to  clear  the  brain  ; 
Now  the  Young  Men's  hearts  are  troubled  for  the  whisper 

of  the  Trues, 

Now  the  Red  Gods  make  their  medicine  again  ! 
Who  hath  seen  the  beaver  busied  ?     Who  hath  watched 

the  blacktail  mating? 

Who  hath  lain  alone  to  hear  the  wild-goose  cry  ? 
Who  hath  worked  the  chosen  water  where  the  ouananiche 

is  waiting, 
Or  the  sea-trout's  jumping-crazy  for  the  fly  ? 

He  must  go — go — go  away  from  here  ! 

On  the  other  side  the  world  he's  overdue. 
'Send  your  road  is  clear  before  yo^t  when  the  old  Spring- 
fret  comes  o'er  you 

And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you  ! 

1  Copyright,  1897,  by  Rudyard  Kipling.     Reprinted  from  "  The  Five  Nations  "  by  special 
permission  of  the  author,  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page&  Co.,  and  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


WHO    HATH    HEARD   THE   BIRCH-LOG   BURNING 


So  for  one  the  wet  sail  arching  through  the  rainbow  round 

the  bow, 

And  for  one  the  creak  of  snow-shoes  on  the  crust ; 
And  for  one  the  lakeside  lilies  where  the  bull-moose  waits 

the  cow, 

And  for  one  the  mi^le-train  coughing  in  the  dust. 
Who   hath   smelt    wood-smoke    at    twilight?      Who    hath 

heard  the  birch-log  burning  ? 
Who  is  quick  to  read  the  noises  of  the  night  ? 
Let  him   follow  with  the  others,  for  the  Young  Men's  feet 

are  turning 
To  the  camps  of  proved  desire  and  known  delight ! 

Let  him  go — go,  etc. 

I. 

Do  you  know  the  blackened  timber — do  you  know  that 

racing  stream 

With  the  raw,  right-angled  log-jam  at  the  end  ; 
And  the  bar  of  sun-warmed  shingle  where  a  man  may  bask 

and  dream 

To  the  click  of  shod  canoe-poles  round  the  bend  ? 
It  is  there  that  we  are  going  with  our  rods  and  reels  and 

traces, 

To  a  silent,  smoky  Indian  that  we  know — 
To  a  couch  of  new-pulled   hemlock  with   the  starlight  on 

our  faces, 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  us  out  and  we  must  go  ! 

They  must  go — go,  etc. 

II. 

Do  you  know  the  shallow  Baltic  where  the  seas  are  steep 

and  short, 

Where  the  bluff,  lee-boarded  fishing-luggers  ride  ? 
Do  you  know  the  joy  of  threshing  leagues  to  leeward  of 

your  port 

On  a  coast  you've  lost  the  chart  of  overside  ? 
It  is  there  that  I  am  going,  with  an  extra  hand  to  bale  her — 
Just  one  able  'long-shore  loafer  that  I  know. 


•'THE    BAR   OF    SUN-WARMED    SHINGLE    WHERE   A   MAN    MAY   BASK    AND   DREAM 


EAS    ARE    STEEP    AND    SHOK 


He  can    take  his  chance  of  drowning,  while  I  sail  and  sail 

and  sail  her, 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go  ! 

He  must  go— go,  etc. 

III. 

Do  you  know  the  pile-built  village  where  the  sago-dealers 

trade — 

Do  you  know  the  reek  of  fish  and  wet  bamboo  ? 
Do  you  know  the  steaming  stillness  of  the  orchid-scented 

glade 

When  the  blazoned,  bird-winged  butterflies  flap  through  ? 
It  is   there   that   I   am   going  with  my  camphor,  net,  and 

boxes, 

To  a  gentle,  yellow  pirate  that  I  know — 
To  my  little  wailing  lemurs,  to  my  palms  and  flying-foxes, 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go  ! 

He  must  go — go,  etc. 

IV. 

Do  you  know  the  world's  white  roof-tree — do  you  know 

that  windy  rift 

Where  the  baffling  mountain-eddies  chop  and  change? 
Do    you   know   the   long    day's    patience,    belly-down    on 

frozen  drift, 

While  the  head  of  heads  is  feeding  out  of  range  ? 
It  is  there  that   I   am  going,  where  the  boulders   and  the 

snow  lie, 

With  a  trusty,  nimble  tracker  that  I  know. 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  to   keep  it  on  the   Horns    of  Ovis 

Poli, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go  ! 

He  must  go — go,  etc. 

Now   the  Four-way  Lodge  is  opened — now  the  Smokes  of 

Council  rise — 

Pleasant    smokes,    ere    yet    'twixt    trail    and    trail    they 
choose — 


THE  WORLD'S  WHITE  ROOF-TREE 


Now  the  girths  and  ropes  are  tested  :   now  they  pack  their 

last  supplies  : 

Now  our  Young  Men  go  to  dance  before  the  Trues  ! 
Who  shall  meet  them  at  those  altars — who  shall  light  them 

to  that  shrine  ? 

Velvet-footed,  who  shall  guide  them  to  their  goal  ? 
Unto  each   the  voice  and  vision  :  unto  each  his  spoor  and 

sign- 
Lonely  mountain  in  the  Northland,  misty  sweat-bath  'neath 

the  Line — 

And  to  each  a  man  that  knows  his  naked  soul  ! 
White  or  yellow,  black  or  copper,  he  is  waiting,  as  a  lover, 

Smoke  of  funnel,  dust  of  hooves,  or  beat  of  train — 
Where   the  high  grass  hides  the  horseman  or  the  glaring 

flats  discover — 
Where   the   steamer    hails   the    landing,    or    the    surf-boat 

brings  the  rover — 
Where   the   rails    run   out  in   sand-drift     .      .      .      Quick ! 

ah,  heave  the  camp-kit  over  ! 
For  the  Red  Gods  make  their  medicine  again  ! 

And  we  go — go — go  away  from  here  ! 

On  the  other  side  the  world  we're  overdue  ! 
'Send  the  road  is  clear  before  you  when  the  old  Spring- 
fret  comes  o'er  you, 
And  ttje  Red  Gods  call  for  you  ! 


VICE-ADMIRAL   SKRYDLOFF 


Two   War   Leaders 


RECENT  events  in  the  war  in  the 
East  have  brought  into  very 
great  prominence  a  Japanese 
military  commander  and  a  distinguished 
Russian  naval  officer.  General  Kuroki 
has  been  and  is  in  supreme  command  of 
the  first  great  division  of  the  Japanese 
army — that  which  landed  at  Chemulpho 
and  other  Korean  ports,  marched  north 
ward  to  the  Yalu  River,  at  the  begin 
ning  of  last  month  effected  the  crossing  of 
the  river  in  a  fierce  battle  with  the  Rus 
sians  in  which  the  latter  were  driven 
back  with  great  loss,  and  has  since 
advanced  rapidly  into  Manchuria  and 
toward  the  Russian  bases  of  military 

278 


concentration.  General  Kuroki  is  a 
Lieutenant-General  in  the  Japanese 
army,  and  also  bears  the  title  of  Baron. 
He  is  a  member  of  the  famous  Samurai 
or  war  clan,  all  of  the  members  of  which 
are  soldiers  by  the  tradition  of  centuries. 
He  is  fifty-nine  years  old,  is  said  to  be 
scarcely  more  than  a  dwarf  in  stature, 
but  as  cool  and  imperturbable  in  the 
thick  of  the  hottest  battle  as  though  on 
dress  parade.  There  is  no  general  in 
the  Japanese  army  who  is  more  es 
teemed  either  as  a  fighter  or  as  a  com 
mander. 

Admiral  Skrydloff   succeeded   to  the 
command  of   the   Russian   fleet  in  the 


1904] 


The  South  and  the  Negro 


367 


between  the  negroes  of  the  coast  and 
those  of  the  interior.  The  back  doors 
of  indulgent  whites,  proverbially  the 
source  of  food  supply  to  the  kith  as 
well  as  the  kin  of  negro  servants,  take 
the  place  of  oyster-beds  and  fishing- 
grounds.  On  the  other  hand,  the  most 
cultivated,  prosperous,  quiet,  home- 
loving,  and  independent  negro  people  I 
have  met  live  in  Southern  cities. 

The  distinctions  among  negroes 
caused  by  environment  of  one  sort  or 
another  are  modified  by  distinctions 
resulting  from  heredity.  Among  the 
colored  people  of  the  South  there  is 
a  great  variety  of  racial  inheritance. 
Tribal  differences,  having  their  origin 
in  Africa,  still  persist  and  can  be  seen 
in  variations  of  physiognomy.  Then  the 
infusion  of  white  blood  has  left  its  trace 
on  a  very  large  proportion  (no  one 
knows  just  how  large)  of  people  classed 
as  negroes  in  the  South. 

To  the  element  of  white  blood  in  the 
negro  race  Southern  white  people  with 
whom  I  talked  attributed  both  the  best 
and  the  worst  traits  of  the  colored  peo 
ple.  One  young  Virginian,  a  doctor, 
remarked  that  the  full-blooded  negroes 
were  lazy,  quiet,  orderly,  unprogressive, 
servile ;  while  the  mixed  bloods  were 
more  alert,  some  disorderly,  some  pro 
gressive,  and  constituted  both  the  de 
generates  and  the  leaders.  This,  I  think, 
is  a  very  general  opinion.  It  is  hard  to 
substantiate,  however ;  for  there  are  no 
statistics  which  can  be  cited  to  prove 
either  point.  It  happened,  however, 
that  every  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  race 
whom  I  have  met,  with  possibly  two 
exceptions,  have  been  manifestly  of 
mixed  blood,  and  I  include  among  these 
the  teachers,  preachers,  and  others  who 
were  doing  other  than  perfunctory  or 
very  obscure  work  for  the  race.  At 
every  normal  school,  industrial  school, 
and  college  for  negroes  the  contrast  in 
physiognomy  between  an  audience  there 
and  a  congregation  in  any  ordinary 
negro  church  I  have  attended  was 
marked.  The  extreme  negro  type  pres 
ent  in  large  numbers  in  the  church  I 
have  never  noticed  in  the  normal  or 
industrial  school  or  college.  The  picked 
members  of  the  race  have  seemed  to  be 
disproportionately  of  mixed  blood.  Ne 


groes  themselves  have  the  feeling  that 
this  is  so.  There  is  a  church  in  Rich 
mond  known  as  the  fashionable  negro 
church  of  the  city.  A  Richmond  negro 
described  it  to  me  this  way :  "  Ah  don' 
know  how  you  think,  but  the  colored 
people  think  that  wha'  the  mos'  yeller 
people  goes  is  the  high-toned  chu'ch, 
and  that's  the  chu'ch  right  over  ya'." 
He  said  that  the  church  was  not  espe 
cially  rich.  It  was  another  church  in 
the  same  city  which  had  the  appearance 
of  being  the  richest  negro  church  I  had 
ever  been  in.  Evidently  it  was  the 
yellow  people,  not  the  yellow  metal,  that 
made  the  church  high-toned.  There  are 
similar  churches  in  Washington,  D.  C., 
and  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  and,  I  am  told, 
in  other  places.  An  impression  seemed 
to  prevail  in  the  South  that  among  a 
certain  class  of  mulattoes,  especially 
among  the  "  colored  four  hundred," 
there  is  a  growing  feeling  of  aversion  to 
social  commingling  with  those  who  have 
not  the  saving  benefit  of  a  white  ancestor. 

For  the  opinion  which  I  heard  fre 
quently  expressed  that  the  mulattoes 
were  inferior  in  vitality  to  the  pure- 
blooded  negroes,  no  evidence  was  ever 
offered  to  me  except  the  fact  that  all  the 
very  aged  colored  people  are  apparently 
of  pure  blood.  That  mulattoes  are  in 
ferior  in  vitality  to  the  whites  in  the  same 
station  I  could  find  no  evidence  whatever. 

Certain  causes  entirely  outside  of  the 
control  of  the  negroes  themselves  are 
thus  effective  in  grouping  them  into 
classes.  Environment  determined  by 
the  time  of  birth  effects  one  classifica 
tion.  Environment  determined  by  the 
place  of  birth  (entirely  outside  of  the 
individual's  control)  and  of  residence 
(only  in  part  under  the  individual's  con 
trol)  effects  another  classification.  In 
heritance  of  tribal  African  blood  or  of 
white  blood  effects  a  third  classification. 
When  one  speaks  of  The  Negro,  it  is 
impossible  to  tell  what  classification  of 
the  negroes  is  meant.  Even  of  a  class 
scarcely  anything  definite  can  be  predi 
cated.  At  any  rate,  in  view  of  these 
involuntary  distinctions,  it  is  important 
to  remember  in  speaking  of  the  negroes 
that  indiscriminate  statements  concern 
ing  inherent  characteristics  of  "the 
race  "  are  of  no  value. 


THE  MOUNTAINS' 

BY    STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  THE   FOREST,"   "  THE   BLAZED   TRAIL,"  "  THE   SILENT   PLACES,"  ETC 


III. — On   Horses 


I  REALLY  believe  that  you  will  find 
more  variation  of  individual  and  inter 
esting  character  in  a  given  number  of 
Western  horses  than  in  an  equal  number 
of  the  average  men  one  meets  on  the  street. 
Their  whole  education,  from  the  time 
they  run  loose  on  the  range  until  the 
time  when,  branded,  corralled,  broken, 
and  saddled,  they  pick  their  way  under 
guidance  over  a  bad  piece  of  trail,  tends 
to  develop  their  self-reliance.  They 
learn  to  think  for  themselves. 

To  begin  with  two  misconceptions, 
merely  by  way  of  clearing  the  ground  : 
the  Western  horse  is  generally  designated 
as  a  "  bronco."  The  term  is  considered 
synonymous  of  horse  or  pony.  This  is 
not  so.  A  horse  is  "  bronco  "  when  he 
is  ugly  or  mean  or  vicious  or  unbroken. 
So  is  a  cow  "bronco"  in  the  same  con 
dition,  or  a  mule,  or  a  burro.  Again, 
from  certain  Western  illustrators  and 
from  a  few  samples,  our  notion  of  the 
cow-pony  has  become  that  of  a  lean, 
rangy,  wiry,  thin-necked,  scrawny  beast. 
Such  may  be  found.  But  the  average 
good  cow-pony  is  apt  to  be  an  exceeding 
ly  handsome  animal,  clean-built,  graceful. 
This  is  natural,  when  you  stop  to  think 
of  it,  for  he  is  descended  direct  from 
Moorish  and  Arabian  stock. 

Certain  characteristics  he  possesses 
beyond  the  capabilities  of  the  ordinary 
horse.  The  most  marvelous  to  me  of 
these  is  his  sure-footedness.  Let  me 
give  you  a  few  examples. 

I  once  was  engaged  with  a  crew  of 
cowboys  in  rounding  up  mustangs  in 
southern  Arizona.  We'  would  ride  slowly 
in  through  the  hills  until  we  caught  sight 
of  the  herds.  Then  it  was  a  case  of 
running  them  down  and  heading  them 
off,  of  turning  the  herd,  milling  it,  of 

1  Copyright,  1904.  by  the  Outlook  Company,  New 
York. 

368 


rushing  it  while  confused  across  country 
and  into  the  big  corrals.  The  surface 
of  the  ground  was  composed  of  angular 
volcanic  rocks  about  the  size  of  your  two 
fists,  between  which  the  bunch-grass 
sprouted.  An  Eastern  rider  would  ride 
his  horse  very  gingerly  and  at  a  walk, 
and  then  thank  his  lucky  stars  if  he 
escaped  stumbles.  The  cowboys  turned 
their  mounts  through  at  a  dead  run.  It 
was  beautiful  to  see  the  ponies  go,  lift 
ing  their  feet  well  up  and  over,  planting 
them  surely  and  firmly,  and  nevertheless 
making  speed  and  attending  to  the  game. 

Once,  when  we  had  pushed  the  herd 
up  the  slope  of  a  butte,  it  made  a  break 
to  get  through  a  little  hog-back.  The 
only  way  to  head  it  was  down  a  series 
of  rough  boulder  ledges  laid  over  a  great 
sheet  of  volcanic  rock.  The  man  at  the 
hog-back  put  his  little  gray  over  the 
ledges  and  boulders,  down  the  sheet  of 
rock — hop,  slip,  slide — and  along  the 
side  hill  in  time  to  head  off  the  first  of  the 
mustangs.  During  the  ten  days  of  riding 
I  saw  no  horse  fall.  The  animal  I  rode, 
Button  by  name,  never  even  stumbled. 

In  the  Black  Hills  years  ago  I  hap 
pened  to  be  one  of  the  inmates  of  a  small 
mining-camp.  Each  night  the  work-ani 
mals,  after  being  fed,  were  turned  loose 
in  the  mountains.  As  I  possessed  the 
only  cow-pony  in  the  outfit,  he  was  fed 
in  the  corral,  and  kept  up  for  the  pur 
pose  of  rounding  up  the  others.  Every 
morning  one  of  us  used  to  ride  him  out 
after  the  herd.  Often  it  was  necessary 
to  run  him  at  full  speed  along  the  moun 
tain-side,  over  rocks,  boulders,  and 
ledges,  across  ravines  and  gullies.  Never 
but  once  in  three  months  did  he  fall. 

On  the  trail,  too,  they  will  perform 
feats  little  short  of  marvelous.  Mere 
steepness  does  not  bother  them  at  all. 
They  sit  back  almost  on  their  haunches, 


The  Mountains 


369 


bunch  their  feet  together,  and  slide.  I 
have  seen  them  go  down  a  hundred  feet 
this  way.  In  rough  country  they  place 
their  feet  accurately  and  quickly,  gauge 
exactly  the  proper  balance.  I  have  led 
my  saddle-horse,  Bullet,  over  country 
where,  undoubtedly  to  his  intense  dis 
gust,  I  myself  have  fallen  a  dozen  times 
in  the  course  of  a  morning.  Bullet  had 
no  such  troubles.  Any  of  the  mountain 
horses  will  hop  cheerfully  up  or  down 
ledges  anywhere.  They  will  even  walk 
a  log  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  above  a 
stream.  I  have  seen  the  same  trick 
performed  in  Barnum's  circus  as  a  won 
derful  feat,  accompanied  by  brass  bands 
and  breathlessness.  We  accomplished 
it  on  our  trip  without  any  brass  bands ; 
I  cannot  answer  for  the  breathlessness. 
As  for  steadiness  of  nerve,  they  will 
walk  serenely  on  the  edge  of  precipices 
a  man  would  hate  to  look  over,  and, 
given  a  palm's  breadth  for  the  soles  of 
their  feet,  they  will  get  through.  Over 
such  a  place  I  should  a  lot  rather  trust 
Bullet  than  myself. 

In  an  emergency  the  Western  horse 
is  not  apt  to  lose  his  head.  When  a 
pack-horse  falls  down,  he  lies  still  with 
out  struggle  until  eased  of  his  pack  and 
told  to  get  up.  If  he  slips  off  an  edge, 
he  tries  to  double  his  fore  legs  under 
him  and  slide.  Should  he  find  himself 
in  a  tight  place,  he  waits  patiently  for 
you  to  help  him,  and  then  proceeds 
gingerly.  A  friend  of  mine  rode  a  horse 
named  Blue.  One  day,  the  trail  being 
slippery  with  rain,  he  slid  and  fell.  My 
friend  managed  a  successful  jump,  but 
Blue  tumbled  about  thirty  feet  to  the 
bed  of  the  canon.  Fortunately,  he  was 
not  injured.  After  some  difficulty,  my 
friend  managed  to  force  his  way  through 
the  chaparral  to  where  Blue  stood.  Then 
it  was  fine  to  see  them.  My  friend 
would  go  ahead  a  few  feet,  picking  a 
route.  When  he  had  made  his  decision, 
he  called  Blue.  Blue  came  that  far  and 
no  further.  Several  times  the  little  horse 
balanced  painfully  and  unsteadily  like  a 
goat,  all  four  feet  on  a  boulder,  waiting 
for  his  signal  to  advance.  In  this  man 
ner  they  regained  the  trail,  and  pro 
ceeded  as  though  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  Instances  could  be  multiplied 
indefinitely. 


A  good  animal  adapts  himself  quickly. 
He  is  capable  of  learning  by  experience. 
In  a  country  entirely  new  to  him  he 
soon  discovers  the  best  method  of  get 
ting  about,  where'the  feed  grows,  where 
he  can  find  water.  He  is  accustomed 
to  foraging  for  himself.  You  do  not  need 
to  show  him  his  pasturage.  If  there  is 
anything  to  eat  anywhere  in  the  district, 
he  will  find  it.  Little  tufts  of  bunch- 
grass  growing  concealed  under  the  edges 
of  the  brush  he  will  search  out.  If  he 
cannot  get  grass,  he  knows  how  to  rustle 
for  the  browse  of  small  bushes.  Bullet 
would  devour  sage-brush  when  he  could 
get  nothing  else ;  and  I  have  even  known 
him  philosophically  to  fill  up  on  dry 
pine-needles.  There  is  no  nutrition  in 
dry  pine-needles,  but  Bullet  got  a  satisfy- 
ingly  full  belly.  On  the  trail  a  well- 
seasoned  horse  will  be  always  on  the 
forage,  snatching  here  a  mouthful,  yon 
der  a  single  spear  of  grass,  and  all  with 
out  breaking  the  regularity  of  his  gait 
or  delaying  the  pack-train  behind  him. 
At  the  end  of  the  day's  travel  he  is  that 
much  to  the  good. 

By  long  observation  thus  you  will  con 
struct  your  ideal  of  the  mountain  horse, 
and  in  your  selection  of  your  animals 
for  an  expedition  you  will  search  always 
for  that  ideal.  It  is  only  too  apt  to  be 
modified  by  personal  idiosyncrasies,  and 
proverbially  an  ideal  is  difficult  of  attain 
ment  ;  but  you  will,  with  care,  come 
closer  to  its  realization  than  one  accus 
tomed  only  to  the  conventionality  of  an 
artificially  reared  horse  would  believe 
possible. 

The  ideal  mountain  horse,  when  you 
come  to  pick  him  out,  is  of  medium  size. 
He  should  be  not  smaller  than  fourteen 
hands  nor  larger  than  fifteen.  He  is 
strongly  but  not  clumsily  built,  short- 
coupled,  with  none  of  the  snipy,  speedy 
range  of  the  valley  animal.  You  will 
select  preferably  one  of  wide,  full  fore 
head,  indicating  intelligence,  low  in  the 
withers,  so  the  saddle  will  not  be  apt  to 
gall  him.  His  sureness  of  foot  should 
be  beyond  question,  and  of  course  he 
must  be  an  expert  at  foraging.  A  horse 
that  knows  but  one  or  two  kinds  of  feed, 
and  that  starves  unless  he  can  find  just 
those  kinds,  is  an  abomination.  He 
must  not  jump  when  you  throw  all  kinds 


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The  Outlook 


[11  June 


of  rattling  and  terrifying  tarpaulins 
across  him,  and  he  must  not  mind  if  the 
pack-ropes  fall  about  his  heels.  In  the 
day's  march  he  must  follow  like  a  dog 
without  the  necessity  of  a  lead-rope,  nor 
mubt  he  stray  far  when  turned  loose  at 
night. 

Fortunately,  when  removed  from  the 
reassuring  environment  of  civilization, 
horses  are  gregarious.  They  hate  to  be 
separated  from  the  bunch  to  which  they 
are  accustomed.  Occasionally  one  of 
us  would  stop  on  the  trail,  for  some 
reason  or  another,  thus  dropping  behind 
the  pack-train.  Instantly  the  saddle- 
horse  so  detained  would  begin  to  grow 
uneasy.  Bullet  used  by  all  means  in  his 
power  to  try  to  induce  me  to  proceed. 
He  would  nibble  me  with  his  lips,  paw 
the  ground,  dance  in  a  circle,  and  finally 
sidle  up  to  me  in  the  position  of  being 
mounted,  than  which  he  could  think  of 
no  stronger  hint.  Then  when  I  had 
finally  remounted,  it  was  hard  to  hold 
him  in.  He  would  whinny  frantically, 
scramble  with  enthusiasm  up  trails  steep 
enough  to  draw  a  protest  at  ordinary 
times,  and  rejoin  his  companions  with 
every  symptom  of  gratification  and  de 
light.  This  gregariousness  and  alarm  at 
being  left  alone  in  a  strange  country 
tends  to  hold  them  together  at  night. 
You  are  reasonably  certain  that  in  the 
morning,  having  found  one,  you  will 
come  upon  the  rest  not  far  away. 

The  personnel  of  our  own  outfit  we 
found  most  interesting.  Although  col 
lected  from  divergent  localities,  they  soon 
became  acquainted.  In  a  crowded  cor 
ral  they  were  always  compact  in  their 
organization,  sticking  close  together,  and 
resisting  as  a  solid  phalanx  encroach 
ments  on  their  feed  by  other  and  stranger 
horses.  Their  internal  organization  was 
very  amusing.  A  certain  segregation 
soon  took  place.  Some  became  leaders ; 
others  by  common  consent  were  rele 
gated  to  the  position  of  subordinates. 

The  order  of  precedence  on  the  trail 
was  rigidly  preserved  by  the  pack-horses. 
An  attempt  by  Buckshot  to  pass  Dinkey, 
for  example,  the  latter  always  met  with 
a  bite  or  a  kick  by  way  of  hint.  If  the 
gelding  still  persisted,  and  tried  to  pass 
by  a  long  detour,  the  mare  would  rush 
out  at  him  angrily,  her  ears  back,  her 


eyes  flashing,  her  neck  extended.  And 
since  Buckshot  was  by  no  means  in 
clined  always  to  give  in  meekly,  we  had 
opportunities  for  plenty  of  amusement. 
The  two  were  always  skirmishing. 
When,  by  a  strategic  short  cut  across 
the  angle  of  a  trail,  Buckshot  succeeded 
in  stealing  a  march  on  Dinkey,  while  she 
was  nipping  a  mouthful,  his  triumph 
was  beautiful  to  see.  He  never  held 
the  place  for  long,  however.  Dinkey's 
was  the  leadership  by  force  of  ambition 
and  energetic  character,  and  at  the  head 
of  the  pack-train  she  normally  marched. 

Yet  there  were  hours  when  utter  in 
difference  seemed  to  fall  on  the  militant 
spirits.  They  trailed  peacefully  and 
amiably  in  the  rear  while  Lily  or  Jenny 
marched  with  pride  in  the  coveted  ad 
vance.  But  the  place  was  theirs  only 
by  sufferance.  A  bite  or  a  kick  sent 
them  back  to  their  own  positions  when 
the  true  leaders  grew  tired  of  their 
vacation. 

However  rigid  this  order  of  prece 
dence,  the  saddle-animals  were  acknowl 
edged  as  privileged — and  knew  it. 
They  could  go  where  they  pleased. 
Furthermore,  theirs  was  the  duty  of  cor 
recting  infractions  of  the  trail  discipline, 
such  as  grazing  on  the  march,  or  at 
tempting  unauthorized  short  cuts.  They 
appreciated  this  duty.  Bullet  always 
became  vastly  indignant  if  one  of  the 
pack-horses  misbehaved.  He  would  run 
at  the  offender  angrily,  hustle  him  to  his 
place  with  savage  nips  of  his  teeth,  and 
drop  back  to  his  own  position  with  a 
comical  air  of  virtue.  Once  in  a  great 
while  it  would  happen  that  on  my  spur 
ring  up  from  the  rear  of  the  column  I 
would  be  mistaken  for  one  of  the  pack- 
horses  attempting  illegally  to  get  ahead. 
Immediately  Dinkey  or  Buckshot  would 
snake  his  head  out  crossly  to  turn  me 
to  the  rear.  It  was  really  ridiculous  to 
see  the  expression  of  apology  with  which 
they  would  take  it  all  back,  and  the 
ostentatious,  nose-elevated  indifference 
in  Bullet's  very  gait  as  he  marched 
haughtily  by.  So  rigid  did  all  the  ani 
mals  hold  this  convention  that  actually 
in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  Dinkey  once 
attempted  to  head  off  a  Southern  Pacific 
train.  She  ran  at  full  speed  diagonally 
toward  it,  her  eyes  striking  fire,  her  ears 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


371 


back,  her  teeth  snapping  in  rage  because 
the  locomotive  would  not  keep  its  place 
behind  her  ladyship. 

Let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  our 
outfit. 

I  rode,  as  you  have  gathered,  an 
Arizona  pony  named  Bullet.  He  was  a 
handsome  fellow,  with  a  chestnut  brown 
coat,  long  mane  and  tail,  and  a  beauti 
ful  pair  of  brown  eyes.  Wes  always 
called  him  "  Baby."  He  was  in  fact  the 
youngster  of  the  party,  with  all  the 
engaging  qualities  of  youth.  I  never 
saw  a  horse  more  willing.  He  wanted 
to  do  what  you  wanted  him  to ;  it  pleased 
him,  and  gave  him  a  warm  conscious 
ness  of  virtue  which  the  least  observant 
could  not  fail  to  remark.  When  lead 
ing,  he  walked  industriously  ahead,  set 
ting  the  pace;  when  driving — that  is, 
closing  up  the  rear — he  attended  strictly 
to  business.  Not  for  the  most  luscious 
bunch  of  grass  that  ever  grew  would  he 
pause  even  for  an  instant.  Yet  in  his 
off  hours,  when  I  rode  irresponsibly 
somewhere  in  the  middle,  he  was  a  great 
hand  to  forage.  Few  choice  morsels 
escaped  him.  He  confided  absolutely 
in  his  rider  in  the  matter  of  bad  country, 
and  would  tackle  anything  I  would  put 
him  at.  It  seemed  that  he  trusted  me 
not  to  put  him  at  anything  that  would 
hurt  him.  This  was  an  invaluable  trait 
when  an  example  had  to  be  set  to  the 
reluctance  of  the  other  horses.  He  was 
a  great  swimmer.  Probably  the  most 
winning  quality  of  his  nature  was  his 
extreme  friendliness.  He  was  always 
wandering  into  camp  to  be  petted,  nib 
bling  me  over  with  his  lips,  begging  to 
have  his  forehead  rubbed,  thrusting  his 
nose  under  an  elbow,  and  otherwise  tell 
ing  how  much  he  thought  of  us.  Who 
ever  broke  him  did  a  good  job.  I  never 
rode  a  better-reined  horse.  A  mere  in 
dication  of  the  bridle  hand  turned  him 
to  right  or  left,  and  a  mere  raising  of 
the  hand  without  the  slightest  pressure 
on  the  bit  stopped  him  short.  And  how 
well  he  understood  cow  workl  Turn 
him  loose  after  the  bunch,  and  he  would 
do  the  rest.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to 
stick  to  him.  That  in  itself  was  no 
mean  task,  for  he  turned  like  a  flash, 
and  was  quick  as  a  cat  on  his  feet.  At 
night  I  always  let  him  go  foot  free.  He 


would  be  there  in  the  morning,  and  I 
could  always  walk  directly  up  to  him 
with  the  bridle  in  plain  sight  in  my 
hand.  Even  at  a  feedless  camp  we 
once  made  where  we  had  shot  a  couple 
of  deer,  he  did  not  attempt  to  wander 
off  in  search  of  pasture,  as  would  most 
horses.  He  nosed  around  unsuccess 
fully  until  pitch  dark,  then  came  into 
camp,  and  with  great  philosophy  stood 
tail  to  the  fire  until  morning.  I  could 
always  jump  oft  anywhere  for  a  shot, 
without  even  the  necessity  of  "tying 
him  to  the  ground,"  by  throwing  the 
reins  over  his  head.  He  would  wait  for 
me,  although  he  was  never  overfond  of 
firearms. 

Nevertheless,  Bullet  had  his  own  sense 
of  dignity.  He  was  literally  as  gentle 
as  a  kitten,  but  he  drew  a  line.  I  shall 
never  forget  how  once,  being  possessed 
of  a  desire  to  find  out  whether  we  could 
swim  our  outfit  across  a  certain  stretch 
of  the  Merced  River,  I  climbed  him 
bareback.  He  bucked  me  off  so  quickly 
that  I  never  even  got  settled  on  his  back. 
Then  he  gazed  at  me  with  sorrow,  while, 
laughing  irrepressibly  at  this  unusual 
assertion  of  independent  ideas,  I  picked 
myself  out  of  a  wild-rose  bush.  He  did 
not  attempt  to  run  away  from  me,  but 
stood  to  be  saddled,  and  plunged  boldly 
into  the  swift  water  where  I  told  him  to. 
Merely  he  thought  it  disrespectful  in  me 
to  ride  him  without  his  proper  harness. 
He  was  the  pet  of  the  camp. 

As  near  as  I  could  make  out,  he  had 
but  one  fault.  He  was  altogether  too 
sensitive  about  his  hind  quarters,  and 
would  jump  like  a  rabbit  if  anything 
touched  him  there. 

Wes  rode  a  horse  we  called  Old  Slob. 
Wes,  be  it  premised,  was  an  interesting 
companion.  He  had  done  everything — 
seal-hunting,  abalone-gathering,  boar- 
hunting,  all  kinds  of  shooting,  cow-punch 
ing  in  the  rough  Coast.  Ranges,  and  all 
other  queer  and  outlandish  and  pictur 
esque  vocations  by  which  a  man  can 
make  a  living.  He  weighed  two  hun 
dred  and  twelve  pounds,  and  was  the 
best  game  shot  with  a  rifle  I  ever  saw. 

As  you  may  imagine,  Old  Slob  was  a 
stocky  individual.  He  was  built  from 
the  ground  up.  His  disposition  was 
quiet,  slow,  honest.  Above  all,  he  gave 


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[11  June 


the  impression  of  vast,  very  vast  expe 
rience.  Never  did  he  hurry  his  mental 
processes,  although  he  was  quick  enough 
in  his  movements  if  need  arose.  He 
quite  declined  to  worry  about  anything. 
Consequently,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  carried  by  far  the  heaviest  man  in 
the  company,  he  stayed  always  fat  and 
in  good  condition.  There  was  some 
thing  almost  pathetic  in  Old  Slob's  will 
ingness  to  go  on  working,  even  when 
more  work  seemed  like  an  imposition. 
You  could  not  fail  to  fall  in  love  with 
his  mild  inquiring  gentle  eyes  and  his 
utter  trust  in  the  goodness  of  human 
nature.  His  only  fault  was  an  excess 
of  caution.  Old  Slob  was  very,  very 
experienced.  He  knew  all  about  trails, 
and  he  declined  to  be  hurried  over  what 
he  considered  a  bad  place.  Wes  used 
sometimes  to  disagree  with  him  as  to 
what  constituted  a  bad  place.  "  Some 
day  you're  going  to  take  a  tumble,  you 
old  fool,"  Wes  used  to  address  him,  "  if 
you  go  on  fiddling  down  steep  rocks 
with  your  little  old  monkey  work.  Why 
don't  you  step  out  ?"  Only  Old  Slob 
never  did  take  a  tumble.  He  was  will 
ing  to  do  anything  for  you,  even  to  the 
assuming  of  a  pack.  This  is  considered 
by  a  saddle-animal  distinctly  as  a  come 
down. 

The  Tenderfoot,  by  the  irony  of  fate, 
drew  a  tenderfoot  horse.  Tunemah  was 
a  big  fool  gray  that  was  constitutionally 
rattle-brained.  He  meant  well  enough, 
but  he  didn't  know  anything.  When  he 
came  to  a  bad  place  in  the  trail,  he  took 
one  good  look — and  rushed  it.  Con 
stantly  we  expected  him  to  come  to  grief. 
It  wore  on  the  Tenderfoot's  nerves. 
Tunemah  was  always  trying  to  wander 
off  the  trail,  trying  fool  routes  of  his 
own  invention.  If  he  were  sent  ahead 
to  set  the  pace,  he  lagged  and  loitered 
and  constantly  looked  back,  worried  lest 
he  get  too  far  in  advance  and  so  lose 
the  bunch.  If  put  at  the  rear,  he  fretted 
against  the  bit,  trying  to  push  on  at  a 
senseless  speed.  In  spite  of  his  extreme 
anxiety  to  stay  with  the  train,  he  would 
once  in  a  blue  moon  get  a  strange  idea 
of  wandering  off  solitary  through  the 
mountains,  passing  good  feed,  good 
water,  good  shelter.  We  would  find  him, 
after  a  greater  or  less  period  of  difficult 


tracking,  perched  in  a  silly  fashion  on 
some  elevation.  Heaven  knows  what 
his  idea  was  ;  it  certainly  was  neither 
search  for  feed,  escape,  return  whence 
he  came,  nor  desire  for  exercise.  When 
we  came  up  with  him,  he  would  gaze 
mildly  at  us  from  a  foolish  vacant  eye 
and  follow  us  peaceably  back  to  camp. 
Like  most  weak  and  silly  people,  he  had 
occasional  stubborn  fits  when  you  could 
beat  him  to  a  pulp  without  persuading 
him.  He  was  one  of  the  type  already 
mentioned  that  knows  but  two  or  three 
kinds  of  feed.  As  time  went  on  he  be 
came  thinner  and  thinner.  The  other 
horses  prospered,  but  Tunemah  failed. 
He  actually  did  not  know  enough  to 
take  care  of  himself;  and  could  not 
learn.  Finally,  when  about  two  months 
out,  we  traded  him  at  a  cow-camp  for  a 
little  buckskin  called  Monache. 

So  much  for  the  saddle-horses.  The 
pack-animals  were  four. 

A  study  of  Dinkey's  character  and  an 
experience  of  her  characteristics  always 
left  me  with  mingled  feelings.  At  times 
I  was  inclined  to  think  her  perfection ; 
at  other  times  thirty  cents  would  have 
been  esteemed  by  me  as*  a  liberal  offer 
for  her.  To  enumerate  her  good  points : 
she  was  an  excellent  weight-carrier ; 
took  good  care  of  her  pack  that  it  never 
scraped  nor  bumped ;  knew  all  about 
trails,  the  possibilities  of  short  cuts,  the 
best  way  of  easing  herself  downhill; 
kept  fat  and  healthy  in  districts  where 
grew  next  to  no  feed  at  all ;  was  past- 
mistress  in  the  picking  of  routes  through 
a  trailless  country.  Her  endurance  was 
marvelous  ;  her  intelligence  equally  so. 
In  fact,  too  great  intelligence  perhaps 
accounted  for  most  of  her  defects.  She 
thought  too  much  for  herself;  she  made 
up  opinions  about  people ;  she  speculated 
on  just  how  far  each  member  of  the 
party,  man  or  beast,  would  stand  imposi 
tion,  and  tried  conclusions  with  each  to 
test  the  accuracy  of  her  speculations; 
she  obstinately  insisted  on  her  own  way 
in  going  up  and  down  hill — a  way  well 
enough  for  Dinkey,  perhaps,  but  hazard 
ous  to  the  other  less  skillful  animals  who 
naturally  would  follow  her  lead.  If  she 
did  condescend  to  do  things  according 
to  your  ideas,  it  was  with  a  mental  res 
ervation.  You  caught  her  sardonic  eye 


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The  Mountains 


373 


fixed  on  you  contemptuously.  You  felt 
at  once  that  she  knew  another  method, 
a  much  better  method,  with  which  yours 
compared  most  unfavorably.  "I'd  like 
to  kick  you  in  the  stomach,"  Wes  used  to 
say;  "you  know  too  much  for  a  horse  1" 

If  one  of  the  horses  bucked  under  the 
pack,  Dinkey  deliberately  tried  to  stam 
pede  the  others — and  generally  suc 
ceeded.  She  invariably  led  them  off 
whenever  she  could  escape  her  picket- 
rope.  In  case  of  trouble  of  any  sort, 
instead  of  standing  still  sensibly,  she 
pretended  to  be  subject  to  wild-eyed 
panics.  It  was  all  pretense,  for  when 
you  did  yield  to  temptation  and  light  into 
her  with  the  toe  of  your  boot,  she  sub 
sided  into  common  sense.  The  spirit  of 
malevolent  mischief  was  hers. 

Her  performances  when  she  was  being 
packed  were  ridiculously  histrionic.  As 
soon  as  the  saddle  was  cinched,  she 
spread  her  legs  apart,  bracing  them 
firmly  as  though  about  to  receive  the 
weight  of  an  iron  safe.  Then,  as  each 
article  of  the  pack  was  thrown  across 
her  back,  she  flinched  and  uttered  the 
most  heartrending  groans.  We  used 
sometimes  to  amuse  ourselves  by  adding 
merely  an  empty  sack,  or  other  article 
quite  without  weight.  The  groans  and 
tremblings  of  the  braced  legs  were  quite 
as  pitiful  as  though  we  had  piled  on  a 
sack  of  flour.  Dinkey,  I  had  forgotten 
to  state,  was  a  white  horse,  and  belonged 
to  Wes. 

Jenny  also  was  white  and  belonged  to 
Wes.  Her  chief  characteristic  was  her 
devotion  to  Dinkey.  She  worshiped 
Dinkey,  and  seconded  her  enthusiasti 
cally.  Without  near  the  originality  of 
Dinkey,  she  was  yet  a  very  good  and 
sure  pack-horse.  The  deceiving  part 
about  Jenny  was  her  eye.  It  was  bale 
ful  with  the  spirit  of  evil — snaky  and 
black,  and  with  green  sideways  gleams 
in  it.  Catching  the  flash  of  it,  you 
would  forever  after  avoid  getting  in  range 
of  her  heels  or  teeth.  But  it  was  all  a 
delusion.  Jenny's  disposition  was  mild 
and  harmless. 

The  third  member  of  the  pack-outfit 
we  bought  at  an  auction  sale  in  rather  a 
peculiar  manner.  About  sixty  head  of 
Arizona  horses  of  the  C.  A.  Bar  outfit 
were  being  sold.  Toward  the  close  of 


the  afternoon  they  brought  out  a  well- 
built,  stocky  buckskin  of  first-rate  appear 
ance  except  that  his  left  flank  was  orna 
mented  with  five  different  brands.  The 
auctioneer  called  attention  to  him. 

"  Here  is  a  first-rate  all-round  horse," 
said  he.  "  He  is  sound  ;  will  ride,  work, 
or  pack ;  perfectly  broken,  mild,  and 
gentle.  He  would  make  a  first-rate  family 
horse,  for  he  has  a  kind  disposition." 

The  official  rider  put  a  saddle  on  him 
to  give  him  a  demonstrating  turn  around 
the  track.  Then  that  mild,  gentle,  per 
fectly  broken  family  horse  of  kind  dis 
position  gave  about  as  pretty  an  exhibi 
tion  of  barbed-wire  bucking  as  you  would 
want  to  see.  Even  the  auctioneer  had 
to  join  in  the  wild  shriek  of  delight  that 
went  up  from  the  crowd.  He  could  not 
get  a  bid,  and  I  bought  the  animal  in 
later  very  cheaply. 

As  I  had  suspected,  the  trouble  turned 
out  to  be  merely  exuberance  or  nervous 
ness  before  a  crowd.  He  bucked  once 
with  me  under  the  saddle ;  and  twice 
subsequently  under  a  pack — that  was  all. 
Buckshot  was  the  best  pack-horse  we 
had.  Bar  an  occasional  saunter  into 
the  brush  when  he  got  tired  of  the  trail, 
we  had  no  fault  to  find  with  him.  He 
carried  a  heavy  pack,  was  as  sure-footed 
as  Bullet,  as  sagacious  on  the  trail  as 
Dinkey,  and  he  always  attended  strictly 
to  his  own  business.  Moreover,  he 
knew  that  business  thoroughly,  knew 
what  should  be  expected  of  him,  accom 
plished  it  well  and  quietly.  His  dispo 
sition  was  dignified  but  lovable.  As 
long  as  you  treated  him  well,  he  was  as 
gentle  as  you  could  ask.  But  once  let 
Buckshot  get  it  into  his  head  that  he 
was  being  imposed  on,  or  once  let  him 
see  that  your  temper  had  betrayed  you 
into  striking  him  when  he  thought  he 
did  not  deserve  it,  and  he  cut  loose 
vigorously  and  emphatically  with  his 
heels.  He  declined  to  be  abused. 

There  remains  but  Lily.  I  don't 
know  just  how  to  do  justice  to  Lily — 
the  "  Lily  maid."  We  named  her  that 
because  she  looked  it.  Her  color  was  a 
pure  white,  her  eye  was  virginal  and 
silly,  her  long  bang  strayed  in  wanton 
carelessness  across  her  face  and  eyes,  her 
expression  was  foolish,  and  her  legs  were 
long  and  rangy.  She  had  the  general 


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The  Outlook 


appearance  of  an  overgrown  school-girl 
too  big  for  short  dresses  and  too  young 
for  long  gowns — a  school-girl  named 
Flossie,  or  Mamie,  or  Lily.  So  we 
named  her  that. 

At  first  hers  was  the  attitude  of  the 
timid  and  shrinking  tenderfoot.  She 
stood  in  awe  of  her  companions ;  she 
appreciated  her  lack  of  experience. 
Humbly  she  took  the  rear;  slavishly 
she  copied  the  other  horses  ;  closely  she 
clung  to  camp.  Then  in  a  few  weeks, 
like  most  tenderfeet,  she  came  to  think 
that  her  short  experience  had  taught  her 
everything  there  was  to  know.  She  put 
on  airs.  She  became  too  cocky  and  con 
ceited  for  words. 

Everything  she  did  was  exaggerated, 
overdone.  She  assumed  her  pack  with 
an  air  that  plainly  said,  "  Just  see  what 
a  good  horse  am  1 1"  She  started  out 
three  seconds  before  the  others  in  a 
manner  intended  to  shame  their  procras 
tinating  ways.  Invariably  she  was  the 
last  to  rest  and  the  first  to  start  on  again. 
She  climbed  over-vigorously,  with  the 
manner  of  conscious  rectitude.  "  Acts 
like  she  was  trying  to  get  her  wages 
raised,"  said  Wes. 

In  this  manner  she  wore  herself  down. 
If  permitted,  she  would  have  climbed 
until  winded,  and  then  would  probably 


have  fallen  off  somewhere  for  lack  of 
strength.  Where  the  other  horses  watched 
the  movements  of  those  ahead,  in  order 
that  when  a  halt  for  rest  was  called  they 
might  stop  at  an  easy  place  on  the  trail, 
Lily  would  climb  on  until  jammed 
against  the  animal  immediately  preced 
ing  her.  Thus  often  she  found  herself 
forced  to  cling  desperately  to  extremely 
bad  footing  until  the  others  were  ready 
to  proceed.  Altogether  she  was  a  pre 
cious  nuisance,  that  acted  busily  but 
without  thinking. 

Two  virtues  she  did  possess.  She 
was  a  glutton  for  work  ;  and  she  could 
fall  far  and  hard  without  injuring  her 
self.  This  was  lucky,  for  she  was  always 
falling.  Several  times  we  went  down 
to  her  fully  expecting  to  find  her  dead 
or  so  crippled  that  she  would  have  to 
be  shot.  The  loss  of  a  little  skin  was 
her  only  injury.  She  got  to  be  quite 
philosophic  about  it.  On  losing  her 
balance  she  would  tumble  peaceably, 
and  then  would  lie  back  with  an  air  of 
luxury,  her  eyes  closed,  while  we  worked 
to  free  her.  When  we  had  loosened  the 
pack,  Wes  would  twist  her  tail.  There 
upon  she  would  open  one  eye  inquiringly 
as  though  to  say,  "  Hullo  1  Done  al 
ready  ?"  Then  leisurely  she  would  arise 
and  shake  herself. 


The   Greater  Sacrifice 

By  Myra  R.  Libby 

Through  years  of  toil  that  knew  no  day  too  long 
Or  night  too  brief  for  rest,  if  so  her  hand 
For  doing  deeds  of  love  kept  firm  and  strong, 
A  life  all  sacrificial  she  had  planned 
And  lived;  her  purpose  held  above  defeat, 
That  one  most  cherished  life  might  ever  be 
With  richest,  rarest  blessings  all  replete. 
"  Behold  1"  men  said,  "she  lives  unselfishly." 

Then  shone  a  light  about  her,  and  a  voice 
In  sudden  wisdom  cried,  "No  more  rejoice, 
For  naught  of  blessing  in  thy  giving  lies. 
Deny!  Denyl  e'er  all  his  manhood  dies." 
And  heeding  then  that  startling,  strange  advice, 
She  made  her  first  great  bleeding  sacrifice. 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


407 


sible  to  keep  them  where  they  can 
neither  see  nor  know.  If  correspondents 
were  allowed  to  follow  the  Japanese 
armies  and  fleets  on  horseback  and  in 
despatch-boats  as  they  followed  our  army 
and  fleet  in  the  Cuban  campaign,  Japan 
would  have  to  play  the  game  of  war  with 
her  cards  face  up  on  the  table — and 
games  are  not  won  in  that  way.  Rus 
sia  is  a  powerful  and  dangerous  antag 
onist;  and  if  the  Japanese  admirals  and 
generals  are  victorious  in  the  fight  that 


they  have  undertaken,  their  success  will 
be  due,  in  great  part,  to  the  rapidity  and 
secrecy  of  their  movements. 

It  is  not  improbable  that  the  day 
of  the  war  correspondent  has  passed. 
Facility  of  telegraphic  communication 
throughout  the  world  has  made  him 
almost  as  dangerous  as  a  spy,  and  the 
example  set  by  Japan  is  likely  to  be 
followed  hereafter  by  every  great  power 
that  finds  itself  engaged  in  war. 

Yokohama,  Japan. 


THE  MOUNTAINS' 

BY    STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  THE   FOREST,"   "  THE   BLAZED   TRAIL,"  "  THE   SILENT   PLACES,"  ETC. 


IV. — On    How   to    Go   About   It 


ONE  truth  you  must  learn  to  ac 
cept,  believe  as  a  tenet  of  your 
faith,  and  act  upon  always.  It 
is  that  your  entire  welfare  depends  on 
the  condition  of  your  horses.  They 
must,  as  a  consequence,  receive  always 
your  first  consideration.  As  long  as 
they  have  rest  and  food,  you  are  sure  of 
getting  along ;  as  soon  as  they  fail,  you 
are  reduced  to  difficulties.  So  absolute 
is  this  truth  that  it  has  passed  into  an 
idiom.  When  a  Westerner  wants  to  tell 
you  that  he  lacks  a  thing,  he  informs 
you  he  is  "  afoot  "  for  it.  "  Give  me  a 
fill  for  my  pipe,"  he  begs  ;  "  I'm  plumb 
afoot  for  tobacco." 

Consequently,  you  think  last  of  your 
own  comfort.  In  casting  about  for  a 
place  to  spend  the  night,  you  look  out 
tor  good  feed.  That  assured,  all  else  is 
of  slight  importance  ;  you  make  the  best 
of  whatever  camping  facilities  may  hap 
pen  to  be  attached.  If  necessary,  you 
will  sleep  on  granite  or  in  a  marsh,  walk 
a  mile  for  firewood  or  water,  if  only  your 
animals  are  well  provided  for.  And  on 
the  trail  you  often  will  work  twice  as 
hard  as  they,  merely  to  save  them  a 
little.  In  whatever  I  may  tell  you  re 
garding  practical  expedients,  keep  this 
always  in  mind. 
i  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


As  to  the  little  details  of  your  daily 
routine  in  the  mountains,  many  are  worth 
setting  down,  however  trivial  they  may 
seem.  They  mark  the  difference  between 
the  greenhorn  and  the  old-timer;  but, 
more  important,  they  mark  also  the  dif 
ference  between  the  right  and  the  wrong, 
the  efficient  and  the  inefficient,  ways  of 
doing  things. 

In  the  morning  the  cook  for  the  day 
is  the  first  man  afoot,  usually  about  half- 
past  four.  He  blows  on  his  fingers, 
casts  malevolent  glances  at  the  sleepers, 
finally  builds  his  fire  and  starts  his  meal. 
Then  he  takes  fiendish  delight  in  kick 
ing  out  the  others.  They  do  not  run, 
with  glad  shouts,  to  plunge  into  the 
nearest  pool,  as  most  camping  fiction 
would  have  us  believe.  Not  they.  The 
glad  shout  and  nearest  pool  can  wait 
until  noon,  when  the  sun  is  warm.  They, 
too,  blow  on  their  fingers,  and  curse  the 
cook  for  getting  them  up  so  early.  All 
eat  breakfast  and  feel  better. 

Now  the  cook  smokes  in  lordly  ease. 
One  of  the  other  men  washes  the  dishes, 
while  his  companion  goes  forth  to  drive 
in  the  horses.  Washing  dishes  is  bad 
enough,  but  fumbling  with  frozen  fingers 
at  stubborn  hobble-buckles  is  worse. 
At  camp  the  horses  are  caught,  and  each 
is  tied  near  his  own  saddle  and  pack. 


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[18  June 


The  saddle-horses  are  attended  to 
first.  Thus  they  are  available  for  busi 
ness  in  case  some  of  the  others  should 
make  trouble.  You  will  see  that  your 
saddle-blankets  are  perfectly  smooth, 
and  so  laid  that  the  edges  are  to  the 
front,  where  they  are  least  likely  to  roll 
under  or  wrinkle.  After  the  saddle  is 
in  place,  lift  it  slightly,  and  loosen  the 
blanket  along  the  backbone  so  it  will 
not  draw  down  tight  under  the  weight 
of  the  rider.  Next  hang  your  rifle-scab 
bard  under  your  left  leg.  It  should  be 
slanted  along  the  horse's  side  at  such 
an  angle  that  neither  will  the  muzzle 
interfere  with  the  animal's  hind  leg  nor 
the  butt  with  your  bridle-hand.  This 
angle  must  be  determined  by  experi 
ment.  The  loop  in  front  should  be 
attached  to  the  scabbard,  so  it  can  be 
hung  over  the  horn  ;  that  behind  to  the 
saddle,  so  the  muzzle  can  be  thrust 
through  it.  When  you  come  to  try  this 
method,  you  will  appreciate  its  handi- 
ness.  Besides  the  rifle,  you  will  carry 
also  your  rope,  camera,  and  a  sweater 
or  waistcoat  for  changes  in  temperature. 
In  your  saddle-bags  are  pipe  and  tobac 
co,  perhaps  a  chunk  of  bread,  your  note 
book,  and  the  map — if  there  is  any. 
Thus  your  saddle-horse  is  outfitted. 
Do  not  forget  your  collapsible  rubber 
cup.  About  your  waist  you  will  wear 
your  cartridge-belt  with  six-shooter  and 
sheath-knife.  I  use  a  forty-five  caliber 
belt.  By  threading  a  buckskin  thong  in 
and  out  through  some  of  the  cartridge- 
loops,  their  size  is  sufficiently  reduced 
to  hold  also  the  30—40  rifle  cartridges. 
Thus  I  carry  ammunition  for  both  re 
volver  and  rifle  in  the  one  belt.  The 
belt  should  not  be  buckled  tight  about 
your  waist,  but  should  hang  well  down 
on  the  hip.  This  is  for  two  reasons. 
In  the  first  place,  it  does  not  drag  so 
heavily  at  your  anatomy,  and  falls  natu 
rally  into  position  when  you  are  mounted. 
In  the  second  place,  you  can  jerk  your 
gun  out  more  easily  from  a  loose-hang 
ing  holster.  Let  your  knife-sheath  be 
so  deep  as  almost  to  cover  the  handle, 
and  the  knife  of  the  very  best  steel  pro 
curable.  I  like  a  thin  blade.  If  you 
are  a  student  of  animal  anatomy,  you 
can  skin  and  quarter  a  deer  with  noth 
ing  heavier  than  a  pocket-knife. 


When  you  come  to  saddle  the  pack- 
horses,  you  must  exercise  even  greater 
care  in  getting  the  saddle-blankets  smooth 
and  the  saddle  in  place.  There  is  some 
give  and  take  to  a  rider ;  but  a  pack 
carries  "  dead,"  and  gives  the  poor 
animal  the  full  handicap  of  its  weight  at 
all  times.  A  rider  dismounts  in  bad  or 
steep  places ;  a  pack  stays  on  until  the 
morning's  journey  is  ended.  See  to  it, 
then,  that  it  is  on  right. 

Each  horse  should  have  assigned  him 
a  definite  and,  as  nearly  as  possible, 
unvarying  pack.  Thus  you  will  not 
have  to  search  everywhere  for  the  things 
you  need. 

For  example,  in  our  own  case,  Lily 
was  known  as  the  cook-horse.  She 
carried  all  the  kitchen  utensils,  the  fire- 
irons,  the  ax,  and  matches.  In  addition, 
her  alforjas  contained  a  number  of  little 
bags  in  which  were  small  quantities  for 
immediate  use  of  all  the  different  sorts 
of  provisions  we  had  with  us.  When  we 
made  camp,  we  unpacked  her  near  the 
best  place  for  a  fire,  and  everything  was 
ready  for  the  cook.  Jenny  was  a  sort 
of  supply  store,  for  she  transported  the 
main  stock  of  the  provisions  of  which 
Lily's  little  bags  contained  samples. 
Dinkey  helped  out  Jenny,  and  in  addi 
tion — since  she  took  such  good  care  of 
her  pack — was  intrusted  with  the  fishing- 
rods,  the  shot-gun,  the  medicine-bag, 
small  miscellaneous  duffle,  and  whatever 
deer  or  bear  meat  we  happened  to  have. 
Buckshot's  pack  consisted  of  things  not 
often  used,  such  as  all  the  ammunition, 
the  horse-shoeing  outfit^  repair-kit,  and 
the  like.  It  was  rarely  disturbed  at  all. 

These  various  things  were  all  stowed 
away  in  the  kyacks  or  alforjas  which 
hung  on  either  side.  They  had  to  be 
very  accurately  balanced.  The  least 
difference  in  weight  caused  one  side  to 
sag,  and  that  in  turn  chafed  the  saddle 
tree  against  the  animal's  withers. 

So  far,  so  good.  Next  comes  the- 
affair  of  the  tqp  packs.  Lay  your  duffle- 
bags  across  the  middle  of  the  saddle. 
Spread  the  blankets  and  quilts  as  evenly 
as  possible.  Cover  all  with  the  canvas 
tarpaulin  suitably  folded.  Everything 
is  now  ready  for  the  pack-rope. 

The  first  thing  anybody  asks  you 
when  it  is  discovered  that  you  know  a 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


409 


little  something  of  pack-trains  is,  "  Do 
you  throw  the  Diamond  Hitch  ?"  Now 
the  Diamond  is  a  pretty  hitch  and  a  firm 
one,  but  it  is  by  no  means  the  fetish 
some  people  make  of  it,  They  would 
have  you  believe  that  it  represents  the 
height  of  the  packer's  art;  and  once 
having  mastered  it,  they  use  it  religiously 
for  every  weight,  shape,  and  size  of  pack. 
The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  the  style 
of  hitch  should  be  varied  according  to 
the  use  to  which  it  is  to  be  put. 

The  Diamond  is  good  because  it 
holds  firmly,  is  a  great  flattener,  and  is 
especially  adapted  to  the  securing  of 
square  boxes.  It  is  celebrated  because 
it  is  pretty  and  rather  difficult  to  learn. 
Also  it  possesses  the  advantage  for  single- 
handed  packing  that  it  can  be  thrown 
slack  throughout  and  then  tightened, 
and  that  the  last  pull  tightens  the  whole 
hitch.  However,  for  ordinary  purposes, 
with  a  quiet  horse  and  a  comparatively 
soft  pack,  the  common  Square  Hitch 
holds  well  enough  and  is  quickly  made. 
For  a  load  of  small  articles  and  heavy 
alforjas  there  is  nothing  like  the  Lone 
Packer.  It  too  is  a  bit  hard  to  learn. 
Chiefly  is  it  valuable  because  the  last 
pulls  draw  the  alforjas  away  from  the 
horse's  sides,  thus  preventing  their 
chafing  him.  Of  the  many  hitches  that 
remain,  you  need  learn,  to  complete 
your  list  for  all  practical  purposes,  only 
the  Bucking  Hitch.  It  is  complicated, 
and  takes  time  and  patience  to  throw, 
but  it  is  warranted  to  hold  your  deck- 
load  through  the  most  violent  storms 
bronco  ingenuity  can  stir  up. 

These  four  will  be  enough.  Learn  to 
throw  them,  and  take  pains  always  to 
throw  them  good  and  tight.  A  loose 
pack  is  the  best  expedient  the  enemy  of 
your  soul  could  possibly  devise.  It 
always  turns  or  comes  to  pieces  on  the 
edge  of  things  ;  and  then  you  will  spend 
the  rest  of  the  morning  trailing  a  wildly 
bucking  horse  by  the  burst  and  scat 
tered  articles  of  camp  duffle.  It  is  fur 
thermore  your  exhilarating  task,  after 
you  have  caught  him,  to  take  stock,  and 
spend  most  of  the  afternoon  looking  for 
what  your  first  search  passed  by.  Wes 
and  I  once  hunted  two  hours  for  as 
large  an  object  as  a  Dutch  oven.  After 
which  you  can  repack.  This  time  you 


will  snug  things  down.  You  should 
have  done  so  in  the  beginning. 

Next,  the  lead-ropes  are  made  fast  to 
the  top  of  the  packs.  There  is  here  to 
be  learned  a  certain  knot.  In  case  of 
trouble  you  can  reach  from  your  saddle 
and  jerk  the  whole  thing  free  by  a  single 
pull  on  a  loose  end. 

All  is  now  ready.  You  take  a  last 
look  around  to  see  that  nothing  has 
been  left.  One  of  the  horsemen  starts 
on  ahead.  The  pack-horses  swing  in 
behind.  We  soon  accustomed  ours  to 
recognize  the  whistling  of  "  Boots  and 
Saddles  "  as  a  signal  for  the  advance. 
Another  horseman  brings  up  the  rear. 
The  day's  journey  has  begun. 

To  one  used  to  pleasure-riding  the 
affair  seems  almost  too  deliberate.  The 
leader  plods  steadily,  stopping  from 
time  to  time  to  rest  on  the  steep  slopes. 
The  others  string  out  in  a  leisurely  pro 
cession.  It  does  no  good  to  hurry. 
The  horses  will  of  their  own  accord 
stay  in  sight  of  one  another,  and  con 
stant  nagging  to  keep  the  rear  closed  up 
only  worries  them  without  accomplish 
ing  any  valuable  result.  In  going  uphill 
especially,  let  the  train  take  its  time. 
Each  animal  is  likely  to  have  his  own 
ideas  about  when  and  where  to  rest.  If 
he  does,  respect  them.  See  to  it  merely 
that  there  is  no  prolonged  yielding  to 
the  temptation  of  meadow  feed,  and  no 
careless  or  malicious  straying  off  the 
trail.  A  minute's  difference  in  the  time 
of  arrival  does  not  count.  Remember 
that  the  horses  are  doing  hard  and  con 
tinuous  work  on  a  grass  diet. 

The  day's  distance  will  not  seem  to 
amount  to  much  in  actual  miles,  espe 
cially  if,  like  most  Californians,  you  are 
accustomed  on  a  fresh  horse  to  make 
an  occasional  sixty  or  seventy  between 
suns  ;  but  it  ought  to  suffice.  There  is 
a  lot  to  be  seen  and  enjoyed  in  a  moun 
tain  mile.  Through  the  high  country 
two  miles  an  hour  is  a  fair  average  rate 
of  speed,  so  you  can  readily  calculate 
that  fifteen  make  a  pretty  long  day. 
You  will  be  afoot  a  good  share  of  the 
time.  If  you  were  out  from  home  for 
,only  a  few  hours'  jaunt,  undoubtedly 
you  would  ride  your  horse  over  places 
where  in  an  extended  trip  you  will  pre 
fer  to  lead  him.  It  is  always  a  question 


410 


The  Outlook 


of  saving  your  animals,  and  that  is  well 
worth  considering. 

About  ten  o'clock  you  must  begin  to 
figure  on  water.  No  horse  will  drink  in 
the  cool  of  the  morning,  and  so,  when 
the  sun  gets  well  up,  he  will  be  thirsty. 
Arrange  it. 

As  to  the  method  of  travel,  you  can 
either  stop  at  noon  or  push  straight  on 
through.  We  usually  arose  about  half- 
past  four  ;  got  under  way  by  seven  ;  and 
then  rode  continuously  until  ready  to 
make  the  next  camp.  In  the  high  coun 
try  this  meant  until  two  or  three  in  the 
afternoon,  by  which  time  both  we  and 
the  horses  were  pretty  hungry.  But 
when  we  did  make  camp,  the  horses  had 
until  the  following  morning  to  get  rested 
and  to  graze,  while  we  had  all  the  re 
mainder  of  the  afternoon  to  fish,  hunt, 
or  loaf.  Sometimes,  however,  it  was 
more  expedient  to  make  a  lunch-camp 
at  noon.  Then  we  allowed  an  hour  for 
grazing,  and  about  half  an  hour  to  pack 
and  unpack.  It  meant  steady  work  for 
ourselves.  To  unpack,  turn  out  the 
horses,  cook,  wash  dishes,  saddle  up 
seven  animals,  and  repack,  kept  us  very 
busy.  There  remained  not  much  leisure 
to  enjoy  the  scenery.  It  freshened  the 
horses,  however,  which  was  the  main 
point.  I  should  say  the  first  method 
was  the  better  for  ordinary  journeys  ; 
and  the  latter  when,  to  reach  good  feed, 
a  forced  march  becomes  necessary. 

On  reaching  the  night's  stopping- 
place,  the  cook  for  the  day  unpacks  the 
cook-horse  and  at  once  sets  about  the 
preparation  of  dinner.  The  other  two 
attend  to  the  animals.  And  no  matter 
how  tired  you  are,  or  how  hungry  you 
may  be,  you  must  take  time  to  bathe 
their  backs  with  cold  water;  to  stake 
the  picket-animal  where  it  will  at  once 
get  good  feed  and  not  tangle  its  rope  in 
bushes,  roots,  or  stumps  ;  to  hobble  the 
others;  and  to  bell  those  inclined  to 


wander.  After  this  is  done,  it  is  well, 
for  the  peace  and  well-being  of  the  party, 
to  take  food. 

A  smoke  establishes  you  in  the  final 
and  normal  attitude  of  good  humor. 
Each  man  spreads  his  tarpaulin  where 
he  has  claimed  his  bed.  Said  claim  is 
indicated  by  his  hat  thrown  down  where 
he  wishes  to  sleep.  It  is  a  mark  of  pre 
emption  which  every  one  is  bound  to 
respect.  Lay  out  your  saddle-blankets, 
cover  them  with  your  quilt,  place  the 
sleeping-blanket  on  top,  and  fold  over 
the  tarpaulin  to  cover  the  whole.  At 
the  head  deposit  your  duffle-bag.  Thus 
are  you  assured  of  a  pleasant  night. 

About  dusk  you  straggle  in  with  trout 
or  game.  The  camp-keeper  lays  aside 
his  mending  or  his  repairing  or  his  note 
book,  and  stirs  up  the  cooking  fire.  The 
smell  of  broiling  and  frying  and  boiling 
arises  in  the  air.  By  the  dancing  flame 
of  the  camp-fire  you  eat  your  third  dinner 
for  the  day — in  the  mountains  all  meals 
are  dinners,  and  formidable  ones  at  that. 
The  curtain  of  blackness  draws  down 
close.  Through  it  shine  stars,  loom 
mountains  cold  and  mist  like  in  the 
moon.  You  tell  stories.  You  smoke  pipes. 
After  a  time  the  pleasant  chill  creeps 
down  from  the  eternal  snows.  Some 
one  throws  another  handful  of  pine-cones 
on  the  fire.  Sleepily  you  prepare  for 
bed.  The  pine-cones  flare  up,  throwing 
their  light  in  your  eyes.  You  turn  over 
and  wrap  the  soft  woolen  blanket  close 
aboutyour  chin.  You  wink  drowsily  and 
at  once  you  are  asleep.  Along  late  in 
the  night  you  awaken  to  find  your  nose 
as  cold  as  a  dog's.  You  open  one  eye. 
A  few  coals  mark  where  the  fire  has  been. 
The  mist  mountains  have  drawn  nearer, 
they  seem  to  bend  over  you  in  silent 
contemplation.  The  moon  is  sailing 
high  in  the  heavens.  With  a  sigh  you 
draw  the  canvas  tarpaulin  over  your 
head.  Instantly  it  is  morning. 


THE  MOUNTAINS' 

BY    STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  THE   FOREST,"   "  THE   BLAZED  TRAIL,"  "  THE   SILENT   PLACES,"  ETC. 


V. — The   Coast   Ranges 


AT  last,  on  the  day  appointed,  we, 
with  five  horses,  climbed  the 
Cold  Spring  Trail  to  the  ridge ; 
and  then,  instead  of  turning  to  the  left, 
we  plunged  down  the  zigzag  lacets  of 
the  other  side.  That  night  we  camped  at 
Mono  Canon,  feeling  ourselves  strangely 
an  integral  part  of  the  relief  map  we 
had  looked  upon  so  many  times  that 
almost  we  had  come  to  consider  its  fea 
tures  as  in  miniature,  not  capacious 
for  the  accommodation  of  life-sized  men. 
Here  we  remained  a  day  while  we  rode 
the  hills  in  search  of  Dinkey  and  Jenny, 
there  pastured. 

We  found  Jenny  peaceful  and  inclined 
to .  be  corralled.  But  Dinkey,  followed 
by  a  slavishly  adoring  brindle  mule,  de 
clined  to  be  rounded  up.  We  chased 
her  up  hill  and  down  ;  along  creek-beds 
and  through  the  spiky  chaparral.  Always 
she  dodged  craftily,  warily,  with  fore 
thought.  Always  the  brindled  mule, 
wrapt  in  admiration  at  his  companion's 
cleverness,  crashed  along  after.  Finally 
we  teased  her  into  a  narrow  canon. 
Wes  and  the  Tenderfoot  closed  the  upper 
end.  I  attempted  to  slip  by  to  the  lower, 
but  was  discovered.  Dinkey  tore  a 
frantic  mile  down  the  side  hill.  Bullet, 
his  nostrils  wide,  his  ears  back,  raced 
parallel  in  the  boulder-strewn  stream- 
bed,  wonderful  in  his  avoidance  of  bad 
footing,  precious  in  his  selection  of  good, 
interested  in  the  game,  indignant  at  the 
wayward  Dinkey,  profoundly  contempt 
uous  of  the  besotted  mule.  At  a  bend 
in  the  canon  interposed  a  steep  bank. 
Up  this  we  scrambled,  dirt  and  stones 
flying.  I  had  just  time  to  bend  low 
along  the  saddle  when,  with  the  ripping 
and  tearing  and  scratching  of  thorns, 
we  burst  blindly  through  a  thicket.  In 
the  open  space  on  the  farther  side 

i  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


Bullet  stopped,  panting  but  triumphant. 
Dinkey,  surrounded  at  last,  turned  back 
toward  camp  with  an  air  of  utmost 
indifference.  The  mule  dropped  his 
long  ears  and  followed. 

At  camp  we  corralled  Dinkey,  but  left 
her  friend  to  shift  for  himself.  Then 
was  lifted  up  his  voice  in  mulish  lamen 
tations  until,  cursing,  we  had  to  ride  out 
bareback  and  drive  him  far  into  the 
hills  and  there  stone  him  into  distant 
fear.  Even  as  we  departed  up  the  trail 
the  following  day  the  voice  of  his  sorrow, 
diminishing  like  the  echo  of  grief,  ap 
pealed  uselessly  to  Dinkey's  sympathy. 
For  Dinkey,  once  captured,  seemed  to 
have  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  ac 
cepted  inevitable  toil  with  a  real  though 
cynical  philosophy. 

The  trail  rose  gradually  by  impercep 
tible  gradations  and  occasional  climbs. 
We  journeyed  in  the  great  canons. 
High  chaparral  flanked  the  trail,  occa 
sional  wide  gray  stretches  of  "  old  man  " 
filled  the  air  with  its  pungent  odor  and 
with  the  calls  of  its  quail.  The  crannies 
of  the  rocks,  the  stretches  of  wide  loose 
shale,  the  crumbling  bottom  earth,  offered 
to  the  eye  the  desiccated  beauties  of 
creamy  yucca,  of  yerba  buena,  of  the 
gaudy  red  paint-brushes,  the  Spanish 
bayonet ;  and  to  the  nostrils  the  hot  dry 
perfumes  of  the  semi-arid  lands.  The 
air  was  tepid  ;  the  sun  hot.  A  sing-song 
of  bees  and  locusts  and  strange  insects 
lulled  the  mind.  The  ponies  plodded 
on  cheerfully.  We  expanded  and  basked 
and  slung  our  legs  over  the  pommels 
of  our  saddles  and  were  glad  we  had 
come. 

At  no  time  did  we  seem  to  be  climb 
ing  mountains.  Rather  we  wound  in 
and  out,  round  and  about,  through  a 
labyrinth  of  valleys  and  canons  and 
ravines,  farther  and  farther  into  a  mys- 

465 


466 


The  Outlook 


[25  June 


terious  shut-in  country  that  seemed  to 
have  no  end.  Once  in  a  while,  to  be 
sure,  we  zigzagged  up  a  trifling  ascent ; 
but  it  was  nothing.  And  then  at  a  cer 
tain  point  the  Tenderfoot  happened  to 
look  back. 

"  Well  1"  he  gasped  ;  "  will  you  look 
at  that  1" 

We  turned.  Through  a  long  straight 
aisle  which  chance  had  placed  just 
there,  we  saw  far  in  the  distance  a  sheer 
slate-colored  wall ;  and  beyond,  still  far 
ther  in  the  distance,  overtopping  the 
slate-colored  wall  by  a  narrow  strip, 
another  wall  of  light  azure  blue. 

"  It's  our  mountains,"  said  Wes,  "  and 
that  blue  ridge  is  the  channel  islands. 
We've  got  up  higher  than  our  range." 

We  looked  about  us,  and  tried  to 
realize  that  we  were  actually  more  than 
half  way  up  the  formidable  ridge  we  had 
so  often  speculated  on  from  the  Cold 
Spring  Trail.  But  it  was  impossible. 
In  a  few  moments,  however,  our  broad, 
easy  canon  narrowed.  Huge  crags  and 
sheer  masses  of  rocks  hemmed  us  in. 
The  chaparral  and  yucca  and  yerba 
buena  gave  place  to  pine-trees  and 
mountain  oaks,  with  little  close  clumps 
of  cottonwoods  in  the  stream  bottom. 
The  brook  narrowed  and  leaped,  and 
the  white  of  alkali  faded  from  its  banks. 
We  began  to  climb  in  good  earnest, 
pausing  often  for  breath.  The  view 
opened.  We  looked  back  on  whence  we 
had  come,  and  saw  again,  from -the  re 
verse,  the  forty  miles  of  ranges  and  val 
leys  we  had  viewed  from  the  Ridge  Trail. 

At  this  point  we  stopped  to  shoot  a 
rattlesnake.  Dinkey  and  Jenny  took  the 
opportunity  to  push  ahead.  From  time 
to  time  we  would  catch  sight  of  them 
traveling  earnestly  on,  following  the  trail 
accurately,  stopping  at  stated  intervals 
to  rest,  doing  their  work,  conducting 
themselves  as  decorously  as  though  driv 
ers  had  stood  over  them  with  blacksnake 
whips.  We  tried  a  little  to  catch  up. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Wes,  "  they've 
been  over  this  trail  before.  They'll 
stop  when  they  get  to  where  we're  going 
to  camp." 

We  halted  a  moment  on  the  ridge  to 
look  back  over  the  lesser  mountains  and 
the  distant  ridge,  beyond  which  the 
islands  now  showed  plainly.  Then  we 


dropped  down  behind  the  divide  into  a 
cup  valley  containing  a  little  meadow 
with  running  water  on  two  sides  of  it 
and  big  pines  above.  The  meadow  was 
brown,  to  be  sure,  as  all  typical  Califor 
nia  is  at  this  time  of  year.  But  the 
brown  of  California  and  the  brown  of 
the  East  are  two  different  things.  Here 
is  no  snow  or  rain  to  mat  down  the 
grass,  to  suck  out  of  it  the  vital  princi 
ples.  It  grows  ripe  and  sweet  and  soft, 
rich  with  the  life  that  has  not  drained 
away,  covering  the  hills  and  valleys  with 
the  effect  of  beaver  fur,  so  that  it  seems 
the  great  round-backed  hills  must  have 
in  a  strange  manner  the  yielding  flesh 
elasticity  of  living  creatures.  The  brown 
of  California  is  the  brown  of  ripeness, 
not  .of  decay. 

Our  little  meadow  was  beautifully 
named  Madulce,1  and  was  just  below 
the  highest  point  of  this  section  of  the 
Coast  Range.  The  air  drank  fresh  with 
the  cool  of  elevation.  We  went  out  to 
shoot  supper;  and  so  found  ourselves 
on  a  little  knoll  fronting  the  brown-hazed 
east.  As  we  stood  there,  enjoying  the 
breeze  after  our  climb,  a  great  wave  of 
hot  air  swept  by  us,  filling  our  lungs 
with  heat,  scorching  our  faces  as  the 
breath  of  a  furnace.  Thus  was  brought 
to  our  minds  what,  in  the  excitement  of 
a  new  country,  we  had  forgotten — that 
we  were  at  last  on  the  eastern  slope, 
and  that  before  us  waited  the  Inferno 
of  the  desert. 

That  evening  we  lay  in  the  sweet  ripe 
grasses  of  Madulce,  and  talked  of  it. 
Wes  had  been  across  it  once  before,  and 
did  not  possess  much  optimism  with 
which  to  comfort  us. 

"  It's  hot,  just  plain  hot,"  said  he, 
"  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it.  And 
there's  mighty  little  water,  and  what 
there  is  is  sickish  and  a  long  ways  apart. 
And  the  sun  is  strong  enough  to  roast 
potatoes  in." 

"  Why  not  travel  at  night  ?"  we  asked. 

"  No  place  to  sleep  under  daytimes," 
explained  Wes.  "It's  better  to  keep 
traveling  and  then  get  a  chance  for  a 
little  sleep  in  the  cool  of  the  night." 

We  saw  the  reasonableness  of  that. 

"  Of  course  we'll  start  early,  and  take 

1  In  all  Spanish  names  the  hnal  e  should  be  pro 
nounced. 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


467 


a  long  nooning,  and  travel  late.  We 
won't  get  such  a  lot  of  sleep." 

"  How  long  is  it  going  to  take  us  ?" 

Wes  calculated. 

"  About  eight  days,"  he  said,  soberly. 

The  next  morning  we  descended  from 
Madulce  abruptly  by  a  dirt  trail,  almost 
perpendicular  until  we  slid  into  a  canon 
of  sage-brush  and  quail,  of  mescale  cac 
tus  and  the  fierce  dry  heat  of  sun-baked 
shale. 

"Is  it  any  hotter  than  this  on  the 
desert  ?"  we  inquired. 

Wes  looked  on  us  with  pity. 

"  This  is  plumb  arctic,"  said  he. 

Near  noon  we  came  to  a  little  cattle 
ranch  situated  in  a  flat  surrounded  by 
red  dikes  and  buttes  after  the  manner 
of  Arizona.  Here  we  unpacked,  early 
as  it  was,  for  through  the  dry  countries 
one  has  to  apportion  his  day's  journeys 
by  the  water  to  be  had.  If  we  went 
farther  to-day,  then  to-morrow  night 
would  find  us  in  a  dry  camp. 

The  horses  scampered  down  the  flat 
to  search  out  alfilaria.  We  roosted 
under  a  slanting  shed — where  were 
stock  saddles,  silver-mounted  bits  and 
spurs,  rawhide  riatas,  branding-irons, 
and  all  the  lumber  of  the  cattle  busi 
ness — and  hung  out  our  tongues  and 
gasped  for  breath,  and  earnestly  desired 
the  sun  to  go  down  or  a  breeze  to  come 
up.  The  breeze  shortly  did  so.  It  was 
a  hot  breeze,  and  availed  merely  to 
cover  us  with  dust,  to  swirl  the  stable- 
yard  into  our  faces.  Great  swarms  of 
flies  buzzed  and  lit  and  stung.  Wes, 
disgusted,  went  over  to  where  a  solitary 
cow-puncher  was  engaged  in  shoeing  a 
horse.  Shortly  we  saw  Wes  pressed 
into  service  to  hold  the  horse's  hoof. 
He  raised  a  pathetic  face  to  us,  the  big 
round  drops  chasing  each  other  down 
it  as  fast  as  rain.  We  grinned  and  felt 
better. 

The  fierce  perpendicular  rays  of  the 
sun  beat  down.  The  air  under  the  shed 
grew  stuffier  and  more  oppressive,  but 
it  was  the  only  patch  of  shade  in  all  that 
pink  and  red  furnace  of  a  little  valley. 
The  Tenderfoot  discovered  a  pair  of 
horse-clippers,  and,  becoming  slightly 
foolish  with  the  heat,  insisted  on  our 
barbering  his  head.  We  told  him  it  was 
cooler  with  hair  than  without ;  and  that 


the  flies  and  sun  would  be  offered  thus 
a  beautiful  opportunity ;  but  without 
avail.  So  we  clipped  him — leaving, 
however,  a  beautiful  long  scalp-lock  in 
the  middle  of  his  crown.  He  looked 
like  High-low-kickapoo-waterpot,  chief 
of  the  Wam-wams.  After  a  while  he 
discovered  it,  and  was  unhappy. 

Shortly  the  riders  began  to  come  in, 
jingling  up  to  the  shed,  with  a  rattle  of 
spurs  and  bit-chains.  There  they  un 
saddled  their  horses,  after  which,  with 
great  unanimity,  they  soused  their  heads 
in  the  horse-trough.  The  chief,  a  six- 
footer,  wearing  beautifully  decorated 
gauntlets  and  a  pair  of  white  buckskin 
chaps,  went  so  far.  as  to  say  it  was  a  little 
warm  for  the  time  of  year.  In  the 
freshness  of  evening,  when  frazzled 
nerves  had  regained  their  steadiness,  he 
returned  to  smoke  and  yarn  with  us, 
and  tell  us  of  the  peculiarities  of  the 
cattle  business  in  the  Cuyamas.  At 
present  he  and  his  men  were  riding  the 
great  mountains,  driving  the  cattle  to 
the  lowlands  in  anticipation  of  a  rodeo 
the  following  week.  A  rodeo  under 
that  sun ! 

We  slept  in  the  ranch  vehicles,  so  the 
air  could  get  under  us.  While  the  stars 
still  shone,  we  crawled  out,  tired  and 
unrefreshed.  The  Tenderfoot  and  I 
went  down  the  valley  after  the  horses. 
While  we  looked,  the  dull,  pallid  gray 
of  dawn  filtered  into  the  darkness,  and 
so  we  saw  our  animals,  put  of  propor 
tion,  monstrous  in  the  half-light  of  that 
earliest  morning.  Before  the  range  rid 
ers  were  even  astir  we  had  taken  up  our 
journey,  filching  thus  a  few  hours  from 
the  inimical  sun. 

Until  ten  o'clock  we  traveled  in  the 
valley  of  the  Cuyamas.  The  river  was 
merely  a  broad  sand  and  stone  bed, 
although  undoubtedly  there  was  water 
below  the  surface.  California  rivers  are 
said  to  flow  bottom  up.  To  the  north 
ward  were  mountains  typical  of  the  arid 
countries — boldly  defined,  clear  in  the 
edges  of  their  folds,  with  sharp  shadows 
and  hard,  uncompromising  surfaces. 
They  looked  brittle  and  hollow,  as  though 
made  of  papier-mache'  and  set  down  in 
the  landscape.  A  long  four  hours'  noon 
we  spent  beneath  a  live-oak  near  a  tiny 
spring.  I  tried  to  hunt,  but  had  to  give 


468 


The  Outlook 


[25  June 


it  up.  After  that  I  lay  on  my  back  and 
shot  doves  as  they  came  to  drink  at  the 
spring.  It  was  better  than  walking 
about,  and  quite  as  effective  as  regards 
supper.  A  band  of  cattle  filed  stolidly 
in,  drank,  and  filed  as  stolidly  away. 
Some  half-wild  horses  came  to  the  edge 
of  the  hill,  stamped,  snorted,  essayed 
a  tentative  advance.  Them  we  drove 
away,  lest  they  decoy  our  own  animals. 
The  flies  would  not  let  us  sleep.  Dozens 
of  valley  and  mountain  quail  called  with 
maddening  cheerfulness  and  energy. 
By  a  mighty  exercise  of  will  we  got 
under  way  again.  In  an  hour  we  rode 
out  into  what  seemed  to  be  a  grassy 
foot-hill  country,  supplied  with  a  most 
refreshing  breeze. 

The  little,  round  hills  of  a  few  hundred 
feet  rolled  gently  away  to  the  artificial 
horizon  made  by  their  closing  in.  The 
trail  meandered  white  and  distinct 
through  the  clear  fur-like  brown  of  their 
grasses.  Cattle  grazed.  Here  and  there 
grew  live-oaks,  planted  singly  as  in  a 
park.  Beyond  we  could  imagine  the 
great  plain,  grading  insensibly  into  these 
little  hills. 

And  then  all  at  once  we  surmounted 
a  slight  elevation,  and  found  that  we  had 
been  traveling  on  a  plateau,  and  that 
these  apparent  little  hills  were  in  reality 
the  peaks  of  high  mountains. 

We  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  wide, 
smooth,  velvet-creased  range  that  dipped 
down  and  down  to  miniature  canons  far 
below.  Not  a  sfngle  little  boulder  broke 
the  rounded  uniformity  of  the  wild 


grasses.  Out  from  beneath  us  crept 
the  plain,  sluggish  and  inert  with  heat. 

Threads  of  trails,  dull  white  patches 
of  alkali,  vague  brown  areas  of  brush, 
showed  indeterminate  for  a  little  dis 
tance.  But  only  for  a  little  distance. 
Almost  at  once  they  grew  dim,  faded  in 
the  thickness  of  atmosphere,  lost  them 
selves  in  the  mantle  of  heat  that  lay 
palpable  and  brown  like  a  shimmering 
changing  veil,  hiding  the  distance  in 
mystery  and  in  dread.  It  was  a  land 
apart ;  a  land  to  be  looked  on  curiously 
from  the  vantage-ground  of  safety — as 
we  were  looking  on  it  from  the  shoulder 
of  the  mountain — and  then  to  be  turned 
away  from,  to  be  left  waiting  behind 
its  brown  veil  for  what  might  come. 
To  abandon  the  high  country,  deliber 
ately  to  cut  loose  from  the  known,  delib 
erately  to  seek  the  presence  that  lay  in 
wait — all  at  once  it  seemed  the  height 
of  grotesque  perversity.  We  wanted  to 
turn  on  our  heels.  We  wanted  to  get 
back  to  our  hills  and  fresh  breezes  and 
clear  water,  to  our  beloved  cheerful  quail, 
to  our  trails  and  the  sweet  upper  air. 

For  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we 
sat  our  horses,  gazing  down.  Some 
unknown  disturbance  lazily  rifted  the 
brown  veil  by  ever  so  little.  We  saw, 
lying  inert  and  languid,  obscured  by  its 
own  rank  steam,  a  great  round  lake. 
We  knew  the  water  to  be  bitter,  poison 
ous.  The  veil  drew  together  again. 
Wes  shook  himself  and  sighed — 

"  There  she  is — confound  her  1"  said 
he. 


"Without   Benefit5'    to   the   Clergy 

By  Grace  Duffield  Goodwin 


HE  wanted  to  buy  things — did  this 
Minister.    Having  for  years  on 
a.meager  salary  denied  himself 
all  of  the  luxuries  and  many  of  the  ne 
cessities,  he  was  now  to  find  his  Waterloo 
in  the  pages  of  a  Spring  and  Fall  cata 
logue.    His  wife  was  to  blame,  as  in  Eden ; 
and  the  outcome,  as  in  Eden,  ,was  clothes. 
There  were  represented  in  the  enticing 
pages   of   that    catalogue    men   clothed 
in  "  correct  and  gentlemanly  "  apparel, 
everything  included,  for   so   modest   a 


.sum  that  even  the  housewifely  soul  who 
longed  to  emulate  King  Lemuel's  Per 
fect  Woman  and  have  her  husband 
"  known  in  the  gates  "  felt  that  the  bills 
could  be  reduced  and  the  magnificent 
surplus  expended  upon  raiment.  So  she 
sought  her  husband  with  a  tape-measure, 
a  pencil,  and  the  yellow  blank,  which  at 
the  critical  moment  had  appeared  from 
nowhere  in  particular,  and  him  she 
measured  with  dauntless  front  and  en 
kindled  enthusiasm. 


GENERAL   OKU 
Drawn  by  Shugetsu  Shoda,  a  Japanese  art  student  in  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  New  York. 


General    Oku 


THE  two  Japanese  military  leaders 
who  have  gained  the  most  fame 
in  the  present  war  are  General 
Kuroki  and  General  Oku.  The  former 
commands  Japan's  First  Army  and  won 
the  battle  of  the  Yalu.  The  latter  is  at 
the  head  of  the  Second  Army,  and  his 
masterly  skill  in  landing  that  army  on 
the  Regent's  Sword  Peninsula,  cutting 
the  railway  communication  between  Port 
Arthur  and  the  Russian  headquarters  at 


Liaoyang,  seizing  Kinchow,  and  hurling 
his  troops  on  the  Russian  fortifications 
at  the  Nanshan  Hills,  which  were  cap 
tured  after  one  of  the  most  terrible  and 
bloody  charges  in  the  history  of  war — 
all  this,  as  well  as  his  later  movements, 
have  extorted  praise  even  from  his 
enemy,  General  Kuropatkin,  who  is  said 
to  have  commended  equally  Oku's  stra 
tegical  skill  and  his  courage  as  those  of 
a  great  soldier. 

505 


I 


THE 

MOUNTAINS 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD 
WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  FOREST 

THE  BLAZED  TRAIL 

THE  SILENT  PLACES   Etc. 

WITH  PICTURES  BY  FERNAND  LUNGREN 

VI.-  -The    Inferno 


FOR  eight  days  we  did  penance, 
checking  off  the  hours,  meeting 
doggedly  one  after  another  the 
disagreeable  things.  We  were  bathed 
in  heat ;  we  inhaled  it ;  it  soaked  into 
us  until  we  seemed  to  radiate  it  like  so 
many  furnaces.  A  condition  of  thirst 
became  the  normal  condition,  to  be  only 
slightly  mitigated  by  a  few  mouthfuls 
from  zinc  canteens  of  tepid  water.  Food 
had  no  attractions;  even  smoking  did 
not  taste  good.  Always  the  flat  coun 
try  stretched  out  before  us.  We  could 
see  far  ahead  a  landmark  which  we 
would  reach  only  by  a  morning's  travel. 
Nothing  intervened  between  us  and  it. 
After  we  had  looked  at  it  a  while,  we 
became  possessed  of  an  almost  insane 
necessity  to  make  a  run  for  it.  The 
slow  maddening  three  miles  an  hour  of 
the  pack-train  drove  us  frantic.  There 
were  times  when  it  seemed  that  unless 
we  shifted  our  gait,  unless  we  stepped 
outside  the  slow  strain  of  patience  to 
which  the  Inferno  held  us  relentlessly, 
we  should  lose  our  minds  and  run  round 
and  round  in  circles — as  people  often 
do,  in  the  desert. 

1  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


And  when  the  last  and  most  formida 
ble  hundred  yards  had  slunk  sullenly 
behind  us  to  insignificance,  and  we  had 
dared  let  our  minds  relax  from  the  in 
sistent  need  of  self-control — then,  beyond 
the  cottonwoods,  or  creek-bed,  or  group 
of  buildings,  whichever  it  might  be,  we 
made  out  another,  remote  as  paradise, 
which  we  must  gain  by  sunset.  So  again 
the  wagon-trail,  with  its  white  choking 
dust,  its  staggering  sun,  its  miles  made 
up  of  monotonous  inches,  each  clutching 
for  a  man's  sanity. 

We  sang  everything  we  knew ;  we 
told  stories ;  we  rode  cross-saddle,  side- 
wise,  erect,  slouching;  we  walked  and 
led  our  horses ;  we  shook  the  powder  of 
years  from  old  worn  jokes,  conundrums, 
and  puzzles — and  at  the  end,  in  spite  of 
our  best  efforts,  we  fell  to  morose  silence 
and  the  red-eyed,  vindictive  contempla 
tion  of  the  objective  point  that  would 
not  seem  to  come  nearer. 

For  now  we  lost  accurate  sense  of 
time.  At  first  it  had  been  merely  a 
question  of  going  in  atone  side  of  eight 
days,  pressing  through  them,  and  coming 
out  on  the  other  side.  Then  the  eight 
days  would  be  behind  us.  But  once  we 

507 


508 


The  Outlook 


had  entered  that  enchanted  period,  we 
found  ourselves  more  deeply  involved. 
The  seemingly  limited  area  spread  with 
startling  swiftness  to  the  very  horizon. 
Abruptly  it  was  borne  in  on  us  that  this 
was  never  going  to  end;  just  as*  now 
for  the  first  time  we  realized  that  it  had 
begun  infinite  ages  ago.  We  were 
caught  in  the  entanglement  of  days. 
The  Coast  Ranges  were  the  experiences 
of  a  past  incarnation  ;  the  Mountains 
were  a  myth.  Nothing  was  real  but 
this ;  and  this  would  endure  forever. 
We  plodded  on  because  somehow  it  was 
part  of  the  great  plan  that  we  should  do 
so.  Not  that  it  did  any  good  :  we  had 
long  since  given  up  such  ideas.  The 
illusion  was  very  real ;  perhaps  it  was 
the  anodyne  mercifully  administered  to 
those  who  pass  through  the  Inferno. 

Most  of  the  time  we  got  on  well 
enough.  One  day,  only,  the  Desert 
showed  her  power.  That  day,  at  five 
of  the  afternoon,  it  was  one  hundred  and 
twenty  degrees  in  the  shade.  And  we, 
through  necessity  of  reaching  the  next 
water,  journeyed  over  the  alkali  at  noon. 
Then  the  Desert  came  close  on  us  and 
looked  us  fair  in  the  eyes,  concealing 
nothing.  She  killed  poor  Deuce,  the 
beautiful  setter  who  had  traveled  the 
wild  countries  so  long ;  she  struck  Wes 
and  the  Tenderfoot  from  their  horses 
when  finally  they  had  reached  a  long- 
legged  water-tank;  she  even  staggered 
the  horses  themselves.  And  I,  lying 
under  a  bush  where  I  had  stayed  after 
the  others  in  the  hope  of  succoring 
Deuce,  began  idly  shooting  at  ghostly 
jack-rabbits  that  looked  real,  but  through 
which  the  revolver  bullets  passed  with 
out  resistance. 

After  this  day  the  Tenderfoot  went 
water-crazy.  Watering  the  horses  be 
came  almost  a  mania  with  him.  He 
could  not  bear  to  pass  even  a  mud-hole 
without  offering  the  astonished  Tune- 
mah  a  chance  to  fill  up,  even  though 
that  animal  had  drunk  freely  not  twenty 
rods  back.  As  for  himself,  he  embraced 
every  opportunity;  and  journeyed  draped 
in  many  canteens. 

After  that  it  was  not  so  bad.  The 
thermometer  stood  from  a  hundred  to  a 
hundred  and  five  or  six,  to  be  sure,  but 
we  were  getting  used  to  it.  Discomfort, 


ordinary  physical  discomfort,  we  came 
to  accept  as  the  normal  environment  of 
man.  It  is  astonishing  how  soon  uni 
formly  uncomfortable  conditions,  by  very 
lack  of  contrast,  do  lose  their  power  to 
color  the  habit  of  mind.  I  imagine 
merely  physical  unhappiness  is  a  matter 
more  of  contrasts  than  of  actual  cir 
cumstances.  We  swallowed  dust ;  we 
humped  our  shoulders  philosophically 
under  the  beating  of  the  sun ;  we 
breathed  the  debris  of  high  winds  ;  we 
cooked  anyhow,  ate  anything,  spent  long 
idle  fly-infested  hours  waiting  for  the 
noon  to  pass ;  we  slept  in  horse-corrals, 
in  the  trail,  in  the  dust,  behind  stables, 
in  hay,  anywhere.  There  was  little 
water,  less  wood  for  the  cooking. 

It  is  now  all  confused,  an  impression 
of  events  without  sequence,  a  mass  of 
little  prominent  purposeless  things  like 
rock  conglomerate.  I  remember  leaning 
rny  elbows  on  a  low  window-ledge  and 
watching  a  poker  game  going  on  in  the 
room  of  a  dive.  The  light  came  from  a 
sickly  suspended  lamp.  It  fell  on  five 
players — two  miners  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
a  Mexican,  a  tough  youth  with  side- 
tilted  derby  hat,  and  a  fat,  gorgeously 
dressed  Chinaman.  The  men  held  their 
cards  close  to  their  bodies,  and  wagered 
in  silence.  Slowly  and  regularly  the 
great  drops  of  sweat  gathered  on  their 
faces.  As  regularly  they  raised  the 
backs  of  their  hands  to  wipe  them  away. 
Only  the  Chinaman,  broad-faced,  calm, 
impassive  as  Buddha,  save  for  a  little 
crafty  smile  in  one  corner  of  his  eye, 
seemed  utterly  unaffected  by  the  heat, 
cool  as  autumn.  His  loose  sleeve  fell 
back  from  his  forearm  when  he  moved 
his  hand  forward,  laying  his  bets.  A 
jade  bracelet  slipped  back  and  forth  as 
smoothly  as  on  yellow  ivory. 

Or,  again,  one  night  when  the  plain 
was  like  a  sea  of  liquid  black,  and  the 
sky  blazed  with  stars,  we  rode  by  a 
sheep-herder's  camp.  The  flicker  of  a 
fire  threw  a  glow  out  into  the  dark.  A 
tall  wagon,  a  group  of  silhouetted  men, 
three  or  four  squatting  dogs,  were 
squarely  within  the  circle  of  illumina 
tion.  And  outside,  in  the  penumbra  of 
shifting  half  light,  now  showing  clearly, 
now  fading  into  darkness,  were  the 
sheep,  indeterminate  in  bulk,  melting 


I 


510 


The  Outlook 


[2  July 


away  by  mysterious  thousands  into  the 
mass  of  night.  We  passed  them.  They 
looked  up,  squinting  their  eyes  against 
the  dazzle  of  their  fire.  The  night 
closed  about  us  again. 

Or  still  another  :  in  the  glare  of  broad 
noon,  after  a  hot  and  trying  day,  a  little 
inn  kept  by  a  French  couple.  And 
there,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  Inferno, 
was  served  to  us,  on  clean  scrubbed 
tables,  a  meal  such  as  one  gets  in  rural 
France,  all  complete,  with  the  potage, 
the  fish  fried  in  oil,  the  wonderful  ragout, 
the  chicken  and  salad,  the  cheese  and 
the  black  coffee,  even  the  vin  ordinaire. 
I  have  forgotten  the  name  of  the  place, 
its  location  on  the  map,  the  name  of  its 
people — one  has  little  to  do  with  detail 
in  the  Inferno — but  that  dinner  never 
will  I  forget,  any  more  than  the  Tender 
foot  will  forget  his  first  sight  of  water 
the  day  when  the  Desert  "  held  us  up." 

Once  the  brown  veil  lifted  to  the  east 
ward.  We,  souls  struggling,  saw  great 
mountains  and  the  whiteness  of  eternal 
snow.  That  noon  we  crossed  a  river, 
hurrying  down  through  the  flat  plain, 
and  in  its  current  came  the  body  of  a 
drowned  bear-cub,  an  alien  from  the 
high  country. 

These  things  should  have  been  as 
signs  to  our  jaded  spirits  that  we  were 
nearly  at  the  end  of  our  penance,  but 
discipline  uad  seared  over  our  souls, 
and  we  rode  on  unknowing. 

Then  we  came  on  a  real  indication. 
It  did  not  amount  to  much.  Merely  a 
dry  river-bed ;  but  the  farther  bank, 
instead  of  being  flat,  cut  into  a  low 
swell  of  land.  We  skirted  it.  Another 
swell  of  land,  like  the  sullen  after-heave 
of  a  storm,  lay  in  our  way.  Then 
we  crossed  a  ravine.  It  was  not  much 
of  a  ravine ;  in  fact,  it  was  more  like  a 
slight  gouge  in  the  flatness  of  the  coun 


try.  After  that  we  began  to  see  oak- 
trees,  scattered  at  rare  intervals.  So 
interested  were  we  in  them  that  we  did 
not  notice  rocks  beginning  to  outcrop 
through  the  soil  until  they  had  become 
numerous  enough  to  be  a  feature  of  the 
landscape.  The  hills,  gently,  quietly, 
without  abrupt  transition,  almost  as 
though  they  feared  to  awaken  our  alarm 
by  too  abrupt  movement  of  growth, 
glided  from  little  swells  to  bigger  swells. 
The  oaks  gathered  closer  together.  The 
ravine's  brother  could  almost  be  called 
a  canon.  The  character  of  the  country 
had  entirely  changed. 

And  yet,  so  gradually  had  this  change 
come  about  that  we  did  not  awaken  to 
a  full  realization  of  our  escape.  To  us 
it  was  still  the  plain,  a  trifle  modified 
by  local  peculiarity,  but  presently  to 
resume  its  wonted  aspect.  We  plodded 
on  dully,  anodyned  with  the  desert  pa 
tience. 

But  at  a  little  before  noon,  as  we 
rounded  the  cheek  of  a  slope,  we  encoun 
tered  an  errant  current  of  air.  It  came 
up  to  us  curiously,  touched  us  each  in 
turn,  and  went  on.  The  warm  furnace 
heat  drew  in  on  us  again.  But  it  had 
been  a  cool  little  current  of  air,  with 
something  of  the  sweetness  of  pines  and 
water  and  snow-banks  in  it.  The  Ten 
derfoot  suddenly  reined  in  his  horse,  and 
looked  about  him. 

"  Boys  1"  he  cried,  a  new  ring  of  joy 
in  his  voice,  "  we're  in  the  foot-hills  1" 

Wes  calculated  rapidly.  "  It's  the 
eighth  day  to-day ;  I  guessed  right  on 
the  time." 

We  stretched  our  arms  and  looked 
about  us.  They  were  dry  brown  hills 
enough  ;  but  they  were  hills,  and  they 
had  trees  on  them,  and  canons  in  them, 
so  to  our  eyes,  wearied  with  flatness, 
they  seemed  wonderful. 


VII The   Foot-Hills 


At  once  our  spirits  rose.  We  straight 
ened  in  our  saddles,  we  breathed  deep, 
we  joked.  The  country  was  scorched 
and  sterile  ;  the  wagon-trail,  almost  par 
alleling  the  mountains  themselves  on  a 
long  easy  slant  toward  the  high  country, 
was  ankle-deep  in  dust ;  the  ravines 
were  still  dry  of  water.  But  it  was  not 


the  Inferno,  and  that  one  fact  sufficed. 
After  a  while  we  crossed  high  above  a 
river  which  dashed  white  water  against 
black  rocks,  and  so  were  happy. 

The  country  went  on  changing.  The 
change  was  always  imperceptible,  as  is 
growth,  or  the  stealthy  advance  of  au 
tumn  through  the  woods.  From  moment 


1904] 


The   Mountains 


511 


to  moment  one  could  detect  no  altera 
tion.  Something  intangible  was  taken 
away ;  something  impalpable  added. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour  we  were  in  the 
oaks  and  sycamores  ;  at  the  end  of  two 
we  were  in  the  pines  and  low  mountains 
of  Bret  Harte's  "  Forty-Nine." 

The  wagon  trail  felt  ever  farther  and 
farther  into  the  hills.  It  had  not  been 
used  as  a  stage-route  for  years,  but  the 
freighting  kept  it  deep  with  dust,  that 
writhed  and  twisted  and  crawled  lazily 
knee-high  to  our  horses,  like  a  living 
creature.  We  felt  the  swing  and  sweep 
of  the  route.  The  boldness  of  its 
stretches,  the  freedom  of  its  reaches  for 
the  opposite  slope,  the  wide  curve  of  its 
horseshoes,  all  filled  us  with  the  breath 
of  an  expansion  which  as  yet  the  broad, 
low  country  only  suggested. 

Everything  here  was  reminiscent  of 
long  ago.  The  very  names  hinted 
stories  of  the  Argonauts.  Coarse  Gold 
Gulch,  Whisky  Creek,  Grub  Gulch,  Fine 
Gold  Post-Office  in  turn  we  passed. 
Occasionally,  with  a  fine  round  dash 
into  the  open,  the  trail  drew  one  side  to 
a  stage-station.  The  huge  stables,  the 
wide  corrals,  the  low  living-houses,  each 
shut  in  its  dooryard  of  blazing  riotous 
flowers,  were  all  familiar.  Only  lacked 
the  old-fashioned  Concord  coach,  from 
which  to  descend  Jack  Hamlin  or  Judge 
Starbottle.  As  for  M'liss,  she  was  there, 
sunbonnet  and  all. 

Down  in  the  gulch  bottoms  were  the 
old  placer  diggings.  Elaborate  little 
ditches  for  the  deflection  of  water,  long 
cradles  for  the  separation  of  gold,  de 
cayed  rockers,  and  shining  in  the  sun 
the  tons  and  tons  of  pay  dirt  which  had 
been  turned  over  pound  by  pound  in  the 
concentrating  of  its  treasure.  Some  of 
the  old  cabins  still  stood.  It  was  all 
deserted  now,  saved  for  the  few  who 
kept  trail  for  the  freighters,  or  who  tilled 
the  restricted  bottom-lands  of  the  flats. 
Road-runners  racked  away  down  the 
paths ;  squirrels  scurried  over  worn-out 
placers ;  jays  screamed  and  chattered 
in  and  out  of  the  abandoned  cabins. 
Strange  and  shy  little  creatures  and 
birds,  reassured  by  the  silence  of  many 
years,  had  ventured  to  take  to  them 
selves  the  engines  of  man's  industry. 
And  the  warm  California  sun  embalmed 


it  all  in  a  peaceful  and  pleasing  forget- 
fulness. 

Now  the  trees  grew  bigger,  and  the 
hills  more  impressive.  We  should  call 
them  mountains  in  the  East.  Pines 
covered  them  to  the  top,  straight,  slen 
der  pines  with  voices.  The  little  flats 
were  planted  with  great  oaks.  When 
we  rode  through  them,  they  shut  out  the 
hills,  so  that  we  might  have  imagined 
ourselves  in  the  level  wooded  country. 
There  insisted  the  effect  of  limitless  tree- 
grown  plains,  which  the  warm  drowsy  sun, 
the  park-like  landscape,  corroborated. 
And  yet  the  contrast  of  the  clear  atmos 
phere  and  the  sharp  air  equally  insisted 
on  the  mountains.  It  was  a  strange  and 
delicious  double  effect,  a  contradiction 
of  natural  impressions,  a  negation  of  our 
right  to  generalize  from  previous  experi 
ence. 

Always  the  trail  wound  up  and  up. 
Never  was  it  steep  ;  never  did  it  com 
mand  an  outlook.  Yet  we  felt  that  at  last 
we  were  rising,  were  leaving  the  level 
of  the  Inferno,  were  nearing  the  thresh 
old  of  the  high  country. 

Mountain  peoples  came  to  the  edges 
of  their  clearings  and  gazed  at  us,  re 
sponding  solemnly  to  our  salutations. 
They  dwelt  in  cabins  and  held  to  agri 
culture  and  the  herding  of  the  wild 
mountain  cattle.  From  them  we  heard 
of  the  high  country  to  which  we  were 
bound.  They  spoke  of  it  as  you  or  I 
would  speak  of  interior  Africa,  as  some 
thing  inconceivably  remote,  to  be  visited 
only  by  the  adventurous,  an  uninhabited 
realm  of  vast  magnitude  and  unknown 
dangers.  In  the  same  way  they  spoke 
of  the  plains.  Only  the  narrow  pine- 
clad  strip  between  the  two  and  six  thou 
sand  feet  of  elevation  they  felt  to  be 
their  natural  environment.  In  it  they 
found  the  proper  conditions  for  their 
existence.  Out  of  it  those  conditions 
lacked.  They  were  as  much  a  localized 
product  as  are  certain  plants  which 
occur  only  at  certain  altitudes.  Also 
were  they  densely  ignorant  of  trails 
and  routes  outside  of  their  own  little 
districts. 

All  this,  you  will  understand,  was  in 
what  is  known  as  the  low  country.  The 
landscape  was  still  brown  ;  the  streams 
but  trickles ;  sage-brush  clung  to  the 


The   Mountains 


513 


ravines;  the    valley    quail   whistled    on 
the  side  hills. 

But  one  day  we  came  suddenly  into  the 


big  pines  and  rocks ;  and  that  night  we 
made  our  first  camp  in  a  meadow  typical 
of  the  mountains  we  had  dreamed  about. 


VIIL — The    Pines 


I  do  not  know  exactly  how  to  make 
you  feel  the  charm  of  that  first  camp  in 
the  big  country.  Certainly  I  can  never 
quite  repeat  it  in  my  own  experience. 

Remember  that  for  two  months  we 
had  grown  accustomed  to  the  brown  of 
the  California  landscape,  and  that  for 
over  a  week  we  had  trayeled  in  the 
Inferno.  We  had  forgotten  the  look  of 
green  grass,  of  abundant  water ;  almost 
had  we  forgotten  the  taste  of  cool  air. 
So  invariably  had  the  trails  been  dusty, 
and  the  camping-places  hard  and  ex 
posed,  that  we  had  come  subconsciously 
to  think  of  such  as  typical  of  the  country. 
Try  to  put  yourself  in  the  frame  of  mind 
those  conditions  would  make. 

Then  imagine  yourself  climbing  in  an 
hour  or  so  up  into  a  high  ridge  country 
of  broad  cup-like  sweeps  and  bold  out 
cropping  ledges.  Imagine  a  forest  of 
pine-trees  bigger  than  any  pines  you  ever 
saw  before — pines  eight  and  ten  feet 
through,  so  huge  that  you  can  hardly 
look  over  one  of  their  prostrate  trunks 
even  from  the  back  of  your  pony.  Im 
agine,  further,  singing  little  streams  of 
ice-cold  water,  deep  refreshing  shadows, 
a  soft  carpet  of  pine-needles  through 
which  the  faint  furrow  of  the  trail  runs 
as  over  velvet.  And  then,  last  of  all,  in 
a  wide  opening,  clear  as  though  chopped 
and  plowed  by  some  backwoodsman,  a 
park  of  grass,  fresh  grass,  green  as  a 
precious  stone. 

This  was  our  first  sight  of  the  moun 
tain  meadows.  From  time  to  time  we 
found  others,  sometimes  a  half-dozen  in 
a  day.  The  rough  country  came  down 
close  about  them,  edging  to  the  very 
hair-line  of  the  magic  circle  which 
seemed  to  assure  their  placid,  sunny 
peace.  An  upheaval  of  splintered  gran 
ite  often  tossed  and  tumbled  in  the 
abandon  of  an  unrestrained  passion  that 
seemed  irresistibly  to  overwhelm  the 
sanities  of  a  whole  region  ;  but  some 
where,  in  the  very  forefront  of  turmoil, 
was  like  to  slumber  one  of  these  little 
meadows,  as  unconscious  of  anything 


but  its  own  flawless  green  simplicity  as 
a  child  asleep  in  mid-ocean.  Or,  away 
up  in  the  snows,  warmed  by  the  fortuity 
of  reflected  heat,  its  emerald  eye  looked 
bravely  out  to  the  heavens.  Or,  as  here, 
it  rested  confidingly  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  austere  forest. 

Always  these  parks  are  green  ;  always 
are  they  clear  and  open.  Their  size 
varies  widely.  Some  are  as  little  as  a 
city  lawn  ;  others,  like  the  great  Mon- 
ache,1  are  miles  in  extent.  In  them  re 
sides  the  possibility  of  your  traveling  the 
high  country ;  for  they  supply  the  feed 
for  your  horses. 

Being  desert-weary,  the  Tenderfoot 
and  I  cried  out  with  the  joy  of  it.  and 
told  in  extravagant  language  how  this  was 
the  best  camp  we  had  ever  made. 

"  It's  a  bum  camp,"  growled  Wes. 
"If  we  couldn't  get  better  camps  than 
this,  I'd  quit  the  game." 

He  expatiated  on  the  fact  that  this 
particular  meadow  was  somewhat  boggy; 
that  the  feed  was  too  watery;  that  there'd 
be  a  cold  wind  down  through  the  pines ; 
and  other  small  and  minor  details.  But 
we,  our  backs  propped  against  appropri 
ately  slanted  rocks,  our  pipes  well  aglow, 
gazed  down  the  twilight  through  the 
wonderful  great  columns  of  the  trees  to 
where  the  white  horses  shone  like  snow 
against  the  unaccustomed  relief  of  green, 
and  laughed  him  to  scorn.  What  did 
we — or  the  horses  for  that  matter — care 
for  trifling  discomforts  of  the  body  ?  In 
these  intangible  comforts  of  the  eye  was 
a  great  refreshment  of  the  spirit. 

The  following  day  we  rode  through 
the  pine  forests  growing  on  the  ridges 
and  hills  and  in  the  elevated  bowl-like 
hollows.  These  were  not  the  so-called 
"  big  trees  " — with  those  we  had  to  do 
later,  as  you  shall  see.  They  were 
merely  sugar  and  yellow  pines,  but  never 
anywhere  have  I  seen  finer  specimens. 
They  were  planted  with  a  grand  sump- 
tuousness  of  space,  and  their  trunks 
were  from  five  to  twelve  feet  in  diameter 

1  Do  not  fail  to  sound  the  final  e. 


514 


The  Outlook 


[2  July 


and  upwards  of  two  hundred  feet  high 
to  the  topmost  spear.  Underbrush, 
ground  growth,  even  saplings  of  the  same 
species,  lacked  entirely,  so  that  we  pro 
ceeded  in  the  clear  open  aisles  of  a  tre 
mendous  and  spacious  magnificence. 

This  very  lack  of  the  smaller  and 
usual  growths,  the  generous  plan  of 
spacing,  and  the  size  of  the  trees  them 
selves,  necessarily  deprived  us  of  a  stand 
ard  of  comparison.  At  first  the  forest 
seemed  immense.  But  after  a  little  our 
eyes  became  accustomed  to  its  propor 
tions.  We  referred  it  back  to  the  meas 
ures  of  long  experience.  The  trees,  the 
wood-aisles,  the  extent  of  vision,  shrunk 
to  the  normal  proportions  of  an  Eastern 
pinery.  And  then  we  would  lower  our 
gaze.  The  pack-train  would  come  into 
view.  It  had  become  Lilliputian,  the 
horses  small  as  white  mice,  the  men 
like  tin  soldiers,  as  though  we  had 
undergone  an  enchantment.  But  in  a 
moment,  with  the  rush  of  a  mighty  trans 
formation,  the  great  trees  would  tower 
huge  again. 

In  the  pine  woods  of  the  mountains 
grows  also  a  certain  close-clipped  para 
sitic  moss.  In  color  it  is  a  brilliant 
yellow-green,  more  yellow  than  green. 
In  shape  it  is  crinkly  and  curly  and 
tangled  up  with  itself  like  very  fine 
shavings.  In  consistency  it  is  dry  and 
brittle.  This  moss  girdles  the  trunks 
of  trees  with  innumerable  parallel  inch- 
wide  bands  a  foot  or  so  apart,  in  the 
manner  of  old-fashioned  striped  stock 
ings.  It  covers  entirely  sundry  twigless 
branches.  Always  in  appearance  is  it 
fantastic,  decorative,  almost  Japanese, 
as  though  consciously  laid  in  with  its 
vivid  yellow-green  as  an  intentional  note 
of  a  tone  scheme.  The  somberest  shad 
ows,  the  most  neutral  twilights,  the  most 
austere  recesses,  are  lighted  by  it  as 
though  so  many  freakish  sunbeams  had 
severed  relations  with  the  parent  lumi 
nary  to  rest  quietly  in  the  coolnesses  of 
the  ancient  forest. 

Underfoot  the  pine  needles  were 
springy  beneath  the  horse's  hoof.  The 
trail  went  softly,  with  the  courtesy  of 
great  gentleness.  Occasionally  we  caught 
sight  of  other  ridges — also  with  pines — 
across  deep  sloping  valleys,  pine  filled. 
The  effect  of  the  distant  trees  seen  from 


above  was  that  of  roughened  velvet,  here 
smooth  and  shining,  there  dark  with 
rich  shadows.  On  these  slopes  played 
the  wind.  In  the  level  countries  it  sang 
through  the  forest  progressively ;  here 
on  the  slope  it  struck  a  thousand  trees 
at  once.  The  air  was  ennobled  with 
the  great  voice,  as  a  church  is  ennobled 
by  the  tones  of  a  great  organ.  Then 
we  would  drop  back  again  to  the  inner 
country,  for  our  way  did  not  contem 
plate  the  descents  nor  climbs,  but  held 
to  the  general  level  of  a  plateau. 

Clear  fresh  brooks  ran  in  every  ra 
vine.  Their  water  was  snow-white 
against  the  black  rocks,  or  lay  dark  in 
bank-shadowed  pools.  As  our  horses 
splashed  across  we  could  glimpse  the 
rainbow  trout  flashing  to  cover.  Where 
were  the  watered  hollows  grew  lush 
thickets  full  of  birds,  outposts  of  the 
aggressively  and  cheerfully  worldly  in 
this  pine  land  of  spiritual  detachment. 
Gorgeous  bush-flowers,  great  of  petal  as 
magnolias,  with  perfume  that  lay  on  the 
air  like  a  heavy  drowsiness ;  long  clear 
stretches  of  an  ankle-high  shrub  of  vivid 
emerald,  looking  in  the  distance  like 
sloping  meadows  of  a  peculiar  color- 
brilliance  ;  patches  of  smaller  flowers 
where  for  the  trifling  space  of  a  street's 
width  the  sun  had  unobstructed  fall — 
these  from  time  to  time  diversified  the 
way,  brought  to  our  perceptions  the  en 
dearing  trifles  of  earthiness,  of  humanity, 
befittingly  to  modify  the  austerity  of  the 
great  forest.  At  a  brookside  we  saw, 
still  fresh  and  moist,  the  print  of  a  bear's 
foot.  From  a  patch  of  the  little  emerald 
brush  a  barren  doe  rose  to  her  feet, 
eyed  us  a  moment,  and  then  bounded 
away  as  though  propelled  by  springs. 
We  saw  her  from  time  to  time  surmount 
ing  little  elevations  farther  and  farther 
away. 

The  air  was  like  cold  water.  We 
had  not  lung  capacity  to  satisfy  our 
desire  for  it.  There  came  with  it  a  dry 
exhilaration  that  brought  high  spirits, 
an  optimistic  viewpoint,  and  a  tremen 
dous  keen  appetite.  It  seemed  that  we 
could  never  tire.  In  fact,  we  never  did. 
Sometimes,  after  a  particularly  hard  day, 
we  felt  like  resting;  but  it  was  always 
after  the  day's  work  was  done,  never 
while  it  was  under  way.  The  Tender- 


1904]  America:  Elect  Among  Nations  515 

foot  and  I  one  day  went  afoot  twenty-two  from  the  lower  country.     Here  we  were 

miles  up  and  down  a  mountain  fourteen  definitely  in  the  Mountains.    Our  plateau 

thousand    feet'  high.      The    last    three  ran  from   six  to  eight  thousand  feet  in 

thousand  feet  were  nearly   straight  up  altitude.      Beyond    it    occasionally    we 

and  down.     We  finished  at  a  four-mile  could  see  three  more  ridges,  rising  and 

clip    an    hour   before    sunset,  and   dis-  falling,  each  higher  than  the  last.     And 

cussed   what  to  do  next  to  fill  in  the  then,  in  the  blue  distance,  the  very  crest 

time.     When  we  sat  down,  we  found  we  of  the  broad  system  called  the  Sierras — 

had  had  about  enough ;  but  we  had  not  another    wide    region   of    sheer  granite 

discovered  it  before.  rising  in  peaks,  pinnacles,  and  minarets, 

All  of  us,  even  the  morose  and  cyni-  rugged,  wonderful,  capped  with  the  eter- 

cal  Dinkey,  felt  the  benefit  of  the  change  nal  snows. 

America :    Elect   Among   Nations 

By  Amanda  T.  Jones 

Now  who  are  these  thronging  thy  gate  ? 

One  knocks  at  thy  door : 
"Behold  where  my  multitudes  wait! 

They  hunger,  and  great  is  thy  store! 
They  have  drunk  of  the  fountains  of  salt 

Where  the  red  lions  breed ; 
They  are  leprous  and  fevered  and  halt, 

They  are  humbled  and  bruised  as  the  reed." 

Is  not  this  the  Master  indeed  ? 

Foot-weary  and  worn, 

The  heat  of  the  day  he  has  borne  : 
Wilt  thou  comfort  all  these  in  their  need  ? 

Wert  thou  not  cast  up  from  the  sea 

To  a  banquet  of  blood  ? 
And  are  there  not  balsams  for  thee, 

Magnolias  and  laurels  in  bud  ? 

Thy  harvests — who  reckons  their  worth? — 

Wheat  and  corn   in  the  seed ; 
For  the  armies  that  trample  the  earth 

Who  numbers  thy  cattle  that  bleed  ? 

Shall  Christ  for  his  desolate  plead, 

Nor  move  thee  to  bless? 

O  thou,  who  art  rich  beyond  guess, 
Turn  back  to  thy  records  and  read  1 

Uplift  them— the  Black  with  the  Brown; 

Anoint  the  torn  feet. 
Are  they  troublers — of  evil  renown? 

Yet  cleanse  them  and  they  shall  be  sweet. 
WTho  murdered  that  lover  of  men  ? 

Not  theirs  was  the  deed  ! 
If  they  wound  thee  in   anger,  what  then  ? 

He  calls  thee — O  serve  him  with  speed  1 

Stand  forth  in  thy  beauty  and  feed 

His  poor  unashamed; 

Full  sweetly  thy  name  shall  be  named, 
And  who  shall  thy  glory  exceed  ? 


DRAWING  PY 
J.  CONACHER 


J 


Y 


By  Sara  Andrew  Shafer 

Beneath  the  full  midsummer  heat 

Are  stores  of  golden,  garnered  wheat; 

Are  billows  of  unripe  oats,  gray-green ; 

Are  armies  of  corn-blades,  trenchant,  keen. 

The  killdeer  flutes  his  mournful  cries ; 

The  hawk  in  charmed  circle  flies. 

Berries  ripen  beneath  the  leaves, 

And  warm  and  still  are  the  musky  eves. 

The  moon  shines  bright  in  the  cloudless  sky 
The  crickets  sing  and  the  soft  winds  sigh. 


THE  MOUNTAINS' 

BY    STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  THE   FOREST,"   "  THE   BLAZED   TRAIL,"  "  THE   SILENT   PLACES,"  ETC. 


IX.— The   Trail 


WHEN  you  say  "  trail "  to  a 
Westerner,  his  eye  lights  up. 
This  is  because  it  means  some 
thing  to  him.  To  another  it  may  mean 
something  entirely  different,  for  the 
blessed  word  is  of  that  rare  and  beauti 
ful  category  which  is  at  once  of  the 
widest  significance  and  the  most  intimate 
privacy  to  him  who  utters  it.  To  your 
mind  leaps  the  picture  of  the  dim  forest- 
aisles  and  the  murmurings  of  tree-top 
breezes ;  to  him  comes  a  vision  of  the 
wide,  dusty  desert;  to  me,  perhaps,  a 
high,  wild  country  of  wonder.  To  all  of 
us  it  is  the  slender,  unbroken,  never- 
ending  thread  connecting  experiences. 

For  in  a  mysterious  way,  not  to  be 
understood,  our  trails  never  do  end. 
They  stop  sometimes,  and  wait  patiently 
while  we  dive  in  and  out  of  houses,  but 
always,  when  we  are  ready  to  go  on, 
they  are  ready  too,  and  so  take  up  the 
journey  placidly  as  though  nothing  had 
intervened.  They  begin,  when  ?  Some 
time,  away  in  the  past,  you  may  remem 
ber  a  single  episode,  vivid  through  the 
mists  of  extreme  youth.  Once  a  very 
little  boy  walked  with  his  father  under 
a  green  roof  of  leaves  that  seemed  farther 
than  the  sky  and  as  unbroken.  All  of 
a  sudden  the  man  raised  his  gun  and 
fired  upwards,  apparently  through  the 
green  roof.  A  pause  ensued.  Then, 
hurtling  roughly  through  still  that  same 
green  roof,  a  great  bird  fell,  hitting  the 
earth  with  a  thump.  The  very  little  boy 
was  I.  My  trail  must  have  begun  there 
under  the  bright  green  roof  of  leaves. 

From  that  earliest  moment  the  Trail 
unrolls  behind  you  like  a  thread  so  that 
never  do  you  quite  lose  connection  with 
your  selves.  There  is  something  a  little 
fearful  to  the  imaginative  in  the  insist 
ence  of  it.  You  may  camp,  you  may 
i  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


linger,  but  some  time  or  another,  sooner 
or  later,  you  must  go  on,  and  when  you 
do,  then  once  again  the  Trail  takes  up 
its  continuity  without  reference  to  the 
muddied  place  you  have  tramped  out  in 
your  indecision  or  indolence  or  obstinacy 
or  necessity.  It  would  be  exceedingly 
curious  to  follow  out  in  patience  the 
chart  of  a  man's  going,  tracing  the  pat 
tern  of  his  steps  with  all  its  windings  of 
nursery,  playground,  boys  afield,  coun 
try,  city,  plain,  forest,  mountain,  wilder 
ness,  home,  always  on  and  on  into  the 
higher  country  of  responsibility  until  at 
the  last  it  leaves  us  at  the  summit  of  the 
Great  Divide.  Such  a  pattern  would 
tell  his  story  as  surely  as  do  the  tracks 
of  a  partridge  on  the  snow. 

A  certain  magic  inheres  in  the  very 
name,  or  at  least  so  it  seems  to  me.  I 
should  be  interested  to  know  whether 
others  feel  the  same  glamour  that  I  do 
in  the  contemplation  of  such  syllables  as 
the  Lo-Lo  Trail,  the  Tunemah  Trail, 
the  Mono  Trail,  the  Bright  Angel  Trail. 
A  certain  elasticity  of  application,  too, 
leaves  room  for  the  more  connotation. 
A  trail  may  be  almost  anything.  There 
are  wagon-trails  which  East  would  rank 
as  macadam  roads ;  horse-trails  that 
would  compare  favorably  with  our  best 
bridle-paths ;  foot-trails  in  the  fur  coun 
try  worn  by  constant  use  as  smooth  as 
so  many  garden-walks.  Then  again 
there  are  other  arrangements.  I  have 
heard  a  mule-driver  overwhelmed  with 
skeptical  derision  because  he  claimed  to 
have  upset  but  six  times  in  traversing  a 
certain  bit  of  trail  not  over  five  miles 
long;  in  charts  of  the  mountains  are 
marked  many  trails  which  are  only 
;<  ways  through  " — you  will  find  few 
traces  of  predecessors  ;  the  same  can  be 
said  of  trails  in  the  great  forests  where 
even  an  Indian  is  sometimes  at  fault. 

599 


600 


The  Outlook 


[9  July 


"  Johnny,  you're  lost,"  accused  the  white 
man.  "Trail  lost;  Injun  here,"  denied 
the  red  man.  And  so  after  your  expe 
rience  has  led  you  by  the  camp-fires  of 
a  thousand  delights,  and  each  of  those 
camp-fires  is  on  the  Trail,  which  only 
pauses  courteously  for  your  stay  and 
then  leads  on  untiring  into  new  myste 
ries  forever  and  ever,  you  come  to  love 
it  as  the  donor  of  great  joys.  You  too 
become  a  Westerner,  and  when  some 
body  says  "  trail,"  your  eye  too  lights  up. 

The  general  impression  of  any  partic 
ular  trail  is  born  rather  of  the  little  inci 
dents  than  of  the  big  accidents.  The 
latter  are  exotic,  and  might  belong  to 
any  time  or  place ;  the  former  are  indi 
vidual.  For  the  Trail  is  a  vantage- 
ground,  and  from  it,  as  your  day's  travel 
unrolls,  you  see  many  things.  Nine- 
tenths  of  your  experience  comes  thus, 
for  in  the  long  journeys  the  side  excur 
sions  are  few  enough  and  unimportant 
enough  almost  to  merit  classification 
with  the  accidents.  In  time  the  charac 
ter  of  the  Trail  thus  defines  itself. 

Most  of  all,  naturally,  the  kind  of 
country  has  to  do  with  this  generalized 
impression.  Certain  surprises,  through 
trees,  of  vista  looking  out  over  unex 
pected  spaces ;  little  notches  in  the  hills 
beyond  which  you  gain  to  a  placid  far 
country  sleeping  under  a  sun  warmer 
than  your  elevation  permits;  the  deli 
cious  excitement  of  the  moment  when 
you  approach  the  very  knife-edge  of  the 
summit  and  wonder  what  lies  beyond — 
these  are  the  things  you  remember  with 
a  warm  heart.  Your  saddle  is  a  point 
of  vantage.  By  it  you  are  elevated 
above  the  country;  from  it  you  can  see 
clearly.  Quail  scuttle  away  to  right  and 
left,  heads  ducked  low;  grouse  boom 
solemnly  on  the  rigid  limbs  of  pines; 
deer  vanish  through  distant  thickets  to 
appear  on  yet  more  distant  ridges, 
thence  to  gaze  curiously,  their  great  ears 
forward  ;  across  the  canon  the  bushes 
sway  violently  with  the  passage  of  a 
cinnamon  bear  among  them — you  see 
them  all  from  your  post  of  observation. 
Your  senses  are  always  alert  for  these 
things  ;  you  are  always  bending  from 
your  saddle  to  examine  the  tracks  and 
signs  that  continually  offer  themselves 
for  your  inspection  and  interpretation. 


Our  trail  of  this  summer  led  at  a 
general  high  elevation,  with  compara 
tively  little  climbing  and  comparatively 
easy  traveling  for  days  at  a  time.  Then 
suddenly  we  would  find  ourselves  on 
the  brink  of  a  great  box  canon  from 
three  to  seven  thousand  feet  deep,  sev 
eral  miles  wide,  and  utterly  precipitous. 
In  the  bottom  of  this  canon  would  be 
good  feed,  fine  groves  of  trees,  and  a 
river  of  some  size  in  which  swam  fish. 
The  trail  to  the  canon-bed  was  always 
bad,  and  generally  dangerous.  In  many 
instances  we  found  it  bordered  with  the 
bones  of  horses  that  had  failed.  The 
river  had  somehow  to  be  forded.  We 
would  camp  a  day  or  so  in  the  good 
feed  and  among  the  fine  groves  of  trees, 
fish  in  the  river,  and  then  address  our 
selves  with  much  reluctance  to  the 
ascent  of  the  other  bad  and  dangerous 
trail  on  the  other  side.  After  that,  in 
the  natural  course  of  events,  subject  to 
variation,  we  could  expect  nice  trails, 
the  comfort  of  easy  travel,  pines,  cedars, 
redwoods,  and  joy  of  life  until  another 
great  cleft  opened  before  us  or  another 
great  mountain-pass  barred  our  way. 

This  was  the  web  and  woof  of  our 
summer.  But  through  it  ran  the  patterns 
of  fantastic  delight  such  as  the  West 
alone  can  offer  a  man's  utter  disbelief  in 
them.  Some  of  these  patterns  stand  out 
in  memory  with  peculiar  distinctness. 

Below  Farewell  Gap  is  a  wide  canon 
with  high  walls  of  dark  rock,  and  down 
those  walls  run  many  streams  of  water. 
They  are  white  as  snow  with  the  dash 
of  their  descent,  but  so  distant  that  the 
eye  cannot  distinguish  their  motion.  In 
the  half-light  of  dawn,  with  the  yellow 
of  sunrise  behind  the  mountains,  they 
look  like  gauze  streamers  thrown  out 
from  the  windows  of  morning  to  cele 
brate  the  solemn  pageant  of  the  passing 
of  many  hills. 

Again,  I  know  of  a  canon  whose 
westerly  wall  is  colored  in  the  dull  rich 
colors,  the  fantastic  patterns,  of  a  Moor 
ish  tapestry.  Umber,  seal  brown,  red, 
terra-cotta.  orange,  Nile  green,  emerald, 
purple,  cobalt  blue,  gray,  lilac,  and  many 
other  colors,  all  rich  with  the  depth  of 
satin,  glow  wonderful  as  the  craftiest 
textures.  Only  here  the  fabric  is  five 
miles  long  and  half  a  mile  wide. 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


601 


There  is  no  use  in  telling  of  these 
things.  They,  and  many  others  of  their 
like,  are  marvels,  and  exist;  but  you 
cannot  tell  about  them,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  the  average  reader  concludes 
at  once  you  must  be  exaggerating,  must 
be  carried  away  by  the  swing  of  words. 
The  cold  sober  truth  is,  you  cannot 
exaggerate.  They  haven't  made  the 
words.  Talk  as  extravagantly  as  you 
wish  to  one  who  will  in  the  most  child 
like  manner  believe  every  syllable  you 
utter.  Then  take  him  into  the  Big 
Country.  He  will  probably  say,  "  Why, 
you  didn't  tell  me  it  was  going  to  be 
anything  like  this  T  We  in  the  East 
have  no  standards  of  comparison  either 
as  regards  size  or  as  regards  color — 
especially  color.  Some  people  once 
directed  me  to  "  The  Gorge "  on  the 
New  England  coast.  I  couldn't  find  it. 
They  led  me  to  it,  and  rhapsodized  over 
its  magnificent  terror.  I  could  have 
ridden  a  horse  into  the  ridiculous  thing. 
As  for  color,  no  Easterner  believes  in  it 
when  such  men  as  Lungren  or  Parrish 
transposit  it  faithfully,  any  more  than  a 
Westerner  would  believe  in  the  autumn 
foliage  of  our  own  hardwoods,  or  an 
Englishman  in  the  glories  of  our  gaudi 
est  sunsets.  They  are  all  true. 

In  the  mountains,  the  high  mountains 
above  the  seven  or  eight  thousand  foot 
level,  grows  an  affair  called  the  snow- 
plant.  It  is,  when  full  grown,  about  two 
feet  in  height,  and  shaped  like  a  loosely 
constructed  pine-cone  set  up  on  end. 
Its  entire  substance  is  like  wax,  and  the 
whole  concern — stalk,  broad  curling 
leaves,  and  all — is  a  brilliant  scarlet. 
Sometime  you  will  ride  through  the  twi 
light  of  deep  pine  woods  growing  on  the 
slope  of  the  mountain,  a  twilight  intensi 
fied,  rendered  more  sacred  to  your  mood 
by  the  external  brilliancy  of  a  glimpse 
of  vivid  blue  sky  above  dazzling  snow 
mountains  far  away.  Then,  in  this 
monotone  of  dark  green  frond  and  dull 
brown  trunk  and  deep  olive  shadow, 
where,  like,  the  ordered  library  of  one 
with  quiet  tastes,  nothing  breaks  the 
harmony  of  unobtrusive  tone,  suddenly 
flames  the  vivid  red  of  a  snow-plant. 
You  will  never  forget  it. 

Flowers  in  general  seem  to  possess 
this  concentrated  brilliancy  both  of  color 


and  of  perfume.  You  will  ride  into  and 
out  of  strata  of  perfume  as  sharply 
defined  as  are  the  quartz  strata  on  the 
ridges.  They  lie  sluggish  and  cloying 
in  the  hollows,  too  heavy  to  rise  on  the 
wings  of  the  air. 

As  for  color,  you  will  see  all  sorts  of 
queer  things.  The  ordered  flower-sci 
ence  of  your  childhood  has  gone  mad. 
You  recognize  some  of  your  old  friends, 
but  strangely  distorted  and  changed — 
even  the  dear  old  "  butter  V  eggs  "  has 
turned  pink  !  Patches  of  purple,  of  red, 
of  blue,  of  yellow,  of  orange,  are  laid  in 
the  hollows  or  on  the  slopes  like  brill 
iant  blankets  out  to  dry  in  the  sun.  The 
fine  grasses  are  spangled  with  them,  so 
that  in  the  cup  of  the  great  fierce  coun 
tries  the  meadows  seem  like  beautiful- 
green  ornaments  enameled  with  jewels. 
The  Mariposa  Lily,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  a  poppy-shaped  flower  varying  from 
white  to  purple,  and  with  each  petal 
decorated  by  an  "  eye "  exactly  like 
those  on  the  great  Cecropia  or  Polyphe 
mus  moths,  so  that  their  effect  is  that  of 
a  flock  of  gorgeous  butterflies  come  to 
rest.  They  hover  over  the  meadows 
poised.  A  movement  would  startle  them 
to  flight;  only  the  proper  movement 
somehow  never  comes. 

The  great  redwoods,  too,  add  to  the 
colored-edition  impression  of  the  whole 
country.  A  redwood,  as  perhaps  you 
know,  is  a  tremendous  big  tree,  some 
times  as  big  as  twenty  feet  in  diameter. 
It  is  exquisitely  proportioned,  like  a 
fluted  column  of  noble  height.  Its  bark 
is  slightly  furrowed  longitudinally,  and 
of  a  peculiar  elastic  appearance  that 
lends  it  an  almost  perfect  illusion  of 
breathing  animal  life.  The  color  is  a 
rich  umber  red.  Sometimes  in  the  early 
morning  or  the  late  afternoon,  when  all 
the  rest  of  the  forest  is  cast  in  shadow, 
these  massive  trunks  will  glow  as  though 
incandescent.  The  Trail,  wonderful 
always,  here  seems  to  pass  through  the 
outer  portals  of  the  great  flaming  regions 
where  dwell  the  risings  and  fallings  of 
days. 

As  you  follow  the  Trail  up,  you  will 
enter  also  the  permanent  dwelling-places 
of  the  seasons.  With  us  each  visits  for 
the  space  of  a  few  months,  then  steals 
away  to  give  place  to  the  next.  Whither 


602 


The  Outlook 


[9  July 


they  go  you  have  not  known  until  you 
have  traveled  the  high  mountains.  Sum 
mer  lives  in  the  valley  ;  that  you  know. 
Then  a  little  higher  you  are  in  the  spring 
time,  even  in  August.  Melting  patches 
of  snow  linger  under  the  heavy  firs ;  the 
earth  is  soggy  with  half-absorbed  snow 
water,  trickling  with  exotic  little  rills 
that  do  not  belong ;  grasses  of  the  year 
before  float  like  drowned  hair  in  pellucid 
pools  with  an  air  of  permanence,  except 
for  the  one  fact ;  fresh  green  things  are 
sprouting  bravely ;  through  bare  branches 
trickles  a  shower  of  bursting  buds,  larger 
at  the  top,  as  though  the  Sower  had,  in 
passing,  scattered  them  from  above. 
Birds  of  extraordinary  cheerfulness  sing 
merrily  to  new  and  doubtful  flowers. 
The  air  tastes  cold,  but  the  sun  is  warm. 
The  great  spring  humming  and  promise 
is  in  the  air.  And  a  few  thousand  feet 
higher  you  wallow  over  the  surface  of 
drifts  while  a  winter  wind  searches  your 
bones.  I  used  to  think  that  Santa 
Claus  dwelt  at  the  North  Pole.  Now  I 
am  convinced  that  he  has  a  workshop 
somewhere  among  the  great  mountains 
where  dwell  the  Seasons,  and  that  his 
reindeer  paw  for  grazing  in  the  alpine 
meadows  below  the  highest  peaks. 

Here  the  birds  migrate  up  and  down 
instead  of  south  and  north.  It  must  be 
a  great  saving  of  trouble  to  them,  and 
undoubtedly  those  who  have  discovered 
it  maintain  toward  the  unenlightened 
the  same  delighted  and  fraternal  secrecy 
with  which  you  and  I  guard  the  knowl 
edge  of  a  good  trout-stream.  When  you 
can  migrate  adequately  in  a  single  day, 
why  spend  a  month  at  it? 

Also  do  I  remember  certain  spruce 
woods  with  openings  where  the  sun 
shone  through.  The  shadows  were  very 
black,  the  sunlight  very  white.  As  I 
looked  back  I  could^'see  the  pack-horses 
alternately  suffer  eclipse  and  illumina 
tion  in  a  strange  flickering  manner  good 
to  behold.  The  dust  of  the  trail  eddied 
and  billowed  lazily  in  the  sun,  each 
mote  flashing  as  though  with  life ;  then 
abruptly  as  it  crossed  the  sharp  line  of 
shade  it  disappeared. 

From  these  spruce  woods,  level  as  a 
floor,  we  came  out  on  the  rounded 
shoulder  of  a  mountain  to  find  ourselves 
nearly  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 


Below  us  was  a  deep  canon  to  the  mid 
dle  of  the  earth.  And  spread  in  a  semi 
circle  about  the  curve  of  our  mountain 
a  most  magnificent  'panoramic  view. 
First  there  were  the  plains,  represented 
by  a  brown  haze  of  heat ;  then,  very 
remote,  the  foot-hills,  the  brush  hills,  the 
pine  mountains,  the  upper  timber,  the 
tremendous  granite  peaks,  and  finally 
the  barrier  of  the  main  crest  with  its 
glittering  snow.  From  the  plains  to  that 
crest  was  over  seventy  miles.  I  should 
not  dare  say  how  far  we  could  see  down 
the  length  of  the  range ;  nor  even  how 
distant  was  the  other  wall  of  the  canon 
over  which  we  rode.  Certainly  it  was 
many  miles ;  and  to  reach  the  latter 
point  consumed  three  days. 

It  is  useless  to  multiply  instances. 
The  principle  is  well  enough  established 
by  these.  Whatever  impression  of  your 
trail  you  carry  away  will  come  from  the 
little  common  occurrences  of  every  day. 
That  is  true  of  all  trails ;  and  equally 
so,  it  seems  to  me,  of  our  Trail  of  Life 
sketched  at  the  beginning  of  this  essay. 

But  the  trail  of  the  mountains  .means 
more  than  wonder ;  it  means  hard 
work.  Unless  you  stick  to  the  beaten 
path,  where  the  freighters  have  lost 
so  many  mules  that  they  have  finally 
decided  to  fix  things  up  a  bit,  you  are 
due  for  lots  of  trouble.  •  Bad  places  will 
come  to  be  a  nightmare  with  you  and  a 
topic  of  conversation  with  whomever 
you  may  meet.  We  once  enjoyed  the 
company  of  a  prospector  three  days 
while  he  made  up  his  mind  to  tackle  a 
certain  bit  of  trail  we  had  just  descended. 
Our  accounts  did  not  encourage  him. 
Every  morning  he  used  to  squint  up  at  the 
cliff  which  rose  some  four  thousand  feet 
above  us.  "  Boys,"  he  said  finally,  as 
he  started,  "  I  may  drop  in  on  you  later 
in  the  morning."  I  am  happy  to  say  he 
did  not. 

The  most  discouraging  to  the  tender 
foot,  but  in  reality  the  safest  of  all  bad 
trails,  is  the  one  that  skirts  a  precipice. 
Your  horse  possesses  a  laudable  desire 
to  spare  your  inside  leg  unnecessary 
abrasion,  so  he  walks  on  the  extreme 
outer  edge.  If  you  watch  the  perform 
ance  of  the  animal  ahead,  you  will 
observe  that  every  few  moments  his  outer 
hind  hoof  slips  off  that  edge,  knocking 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


603 


little  stones  down  into  the  abyss.  Then 
you  conclude  that  sundry  slight  jars  you 
have  been  experiencing  are  from  the 
same  cause.  Your  peace  of  mind  deserts 
you.  You  stare  straight  ahead,  sit  very 
light  indeed,  and  perhaps  turn  the  least 
bit  sick.  The  horse,  however,  does  not 
mind,  nor  will  you,  after  a  little.  There 
is  absolutely  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit 
steady  and  give  your  animal  his  head. 
In  a  fairly  extended  experience  I  never 
got  off  the  edge  but  once.  Then  some 
body  shot  a  gun  immediately  ahead ;  my 
horse  tried  to  turn  around,  slipped,  and 
slid  backwards  until  he  overhung  the 
chasm.  Fortunately,  his  hind  feet  caught 
a  tiny  bush.  He  gave  a  mighty  heave, 
and  regained  the  trail.  Afterwards  I 
took  a  look  and  found  that  there  were 
no  more  bushes  for  a  hundred  feet  either 
way. 

Next  in  terror  to  the  unaccustomed 
is  an  ascent  by  lacets  up  a  very  steep 
side  hill.  The  effect  is  cumulative.  Each 
turn  brings  you  one  stage  higher,  adds 
definitely  one  more  unity  to  the  test  of 
your  hardihood.  This  last  has  not  ter 
rified  you  ;  how  about  the  next  ?  or  the 
next  ?  or  the  one  after  that  ?  There  is 
not  the  slightest  danger.  You  appreciate 
this  point  after  you  have  met  head-on 
some  old-timer.  After  you  have  specu 
lated  frantically  how  you  are  to  pass 
him,  he  solves  the  problem  by  calmly 
turning  his  horse  off  the  edge  and  slid 
ing  to  the  next  lacet  below.  Then  you 
see  that  with  a  mountain  horse  it  does 
not  much  matter  whether  you  get  off 
such  a  trail  or  not. 

The  real  bad  places  are  quite  as  likely 
to  be  on  the  level  as  on  the  slant.  The 
tremendous  granite  slides,  where  the 
cliff  has  avalanched  thousands  of  tons 
of  loose  jagged  rock-fragments  across  the 
passage,  are  the  worst.  There  your 
horse  has  to  be  a  goat  in  balance.  He 
must  pick  his  way  from  the  top  of  one 
fragment  to  the  other,  and  if  he  slips  into 
the  interstices  he  probably  breaks  a  leg. 
In  some  parts  of  the  granite  country  are 
also  smooth  rock  aprons  where  footing 
is  especially  difficult,  and  where  often  a 
slip  on  them  means  a  toboggan  chute  off 
into  space.  I  know  of  one  spot  where 
such  an  apron  curves  off  the  shoulder  of 
the  mountain.  Your  horse  slides  directly ' 


down  it  until  his  hoofs  encounter  a  little 
crevice.  Checking  at  this,  he  turns 
sharp  to  the  left  and  so  off  to  the  good 
trail  again.  If  he  does  not  check  at  the 
little  crevice,  he  slides  on  over  the  curve 
of  the  shoulder  and  lands  too  far  down 
to  bury. 

Loose  rocks  in  numbers  on  a  very 
steep  and  narrow  trail  are  always  an 
abomination,  and  a  numerous  abomina 
tion  at  that.  A  horse  slides,  skates, 
slithers.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that  luck  must  count  largely  in  such  a 
place.  When  the  animal  treads  on  a 
loose  round  stone — as  he  does  every 
step  of  the  way — that  stone  is  going  to 
roll  under  him,  and  he  is  going  to  catch 
himself  as  the  nature  of  that  stone  and 
the  little  gods  of  chance  may  will.  Only, 
furthermore,  I  have  noticed  that  the 
really  good  horse  keeps  his  feet,  and  the 
poor  one  tumbles.  A  judgmatical  rider 
can  help  a  great  deal  by  the  delicacy  of 
his  riding  and  the  skill  with  which  he 
uses  his  reins.  Or,  better  still,  get  off 
and  walk. 

Another  mean  combination,  especially 
on  a  slant,  is  six  inches  of  snow  over 
loose  stones  or  small  boulders.  There 
you  hope  for  divine  favor  and  flounder 
ahead.  There  is  one  compensation; 
the  snow  is  soft  to  fall  on.  Boggy  areas 
you  must  be  able  to  gauge  the  depth  -of 
at  a  glance.  And  there  are  places, 
beautiful  to  behold,  where  a  horse 
clambers  up  the  least  bit  of  an  ascent, 
hits  his  pack  against  a  projection,  and 
is  hurled  into  outer  space.  You  must 
recognize  these,  for  he  will  be  busy  with 
his  feet. 

Some  of  the  mountain  rivers  furnish 
pleasing  afternoons  of  sport.  They  are 
deep  and  swift,  and  below  the  ford  are 
rapids.  If  there  is  a  fallen  tree  of  any 
sort  across  them — remember  the  length 
of  California  trees,  and  do  not  despise 
the  rivers — you  would  better  unpack, 
carry  your  goods  across  yourself,  and 
swim  the  pack-horses.  If  the  current  is 
very  bad,  you  can  splice  riatas,  hitch 
one  end  to  the  horse  and  the  other  to  a 
tree  on  the  farther  side,  and  start  the 
combination.  The  animal  is  bound  to 
swing  across  somehow.  Generally  you 
can  drive  them  over  loose.  In  swimming 
a  horse  from  the  saddle,  start  him  well 


602 


The  Outlook 


[9  July 


they  go  you  have  not  known  until  you 
have  traveled  the  high  mountains.  Sum 
mer  lives  in  the  valley  ;  that  you  know. 
Then  a  little  higher  you  are  in  the  spring 
time,  even  in  August.  Melting  patches 
of  snow  linger  under  the  heavy  firs ;  the 
earth  is  soggy  with  half-absorbed  snow 
water,  trickling  with  exotic  little  rills 
that  do  not  belong ;  grasses  of  the  year 
before  float  like  drowned  hair  in  pellucid 
pools  with  an  air  of  permanence,  except 
for  the  one  fact ;  fresh  green  things  are 
sprouting  bravely ;  through  bare  branches 
trickles  a  shower  of  bursting  buds,  larger 
at  the  top,  as  though  the  Sower  had,  in 
passing,  scattered  them  from  above. 
Birds  of  extraordinary  cheerfulness  sing 
merrily  to  new  and  doubtful  flowers. 
The  air  tastes  cold,  but  the  sun  is  warm. 
The  great  spring  humming  and  promise 
is  in  the  air.  And  a  few  thousand  feet 
higher  you  wallow  over  the  surface  of 
drifts  while  a  winter  wind  searches  your 
bones.  I  used  to  think  that  Santa 
Claus  dwelt  at  the  North  Pole.  Now  I 
am  convinced  that  he  has  a  workshop 
somewhere  among  the  great  mountains 
where  dwell  the  Seasons,  and  that  his 
reindeer  paw  for  grazing  in  the  alpine 
meadows  below  the  highest  peaks. 

Here  the  birds  migrate  up  and  down 
instead  of  south  and  north.  It  must  be 
a  great  saving  of  trouble  to  them,  and 
undoubtedly  those  who  have  discovered 
it  maintain  toward  the  unenlightened 
the  same  delighted  and  fraternal  secrecy 
with  which  you  and  I  guard  the  knowl 
edge  of  a  good  trout-stream.  When  you 
can  migrate  adequately  in  a  single  day, 
why  spend  a  month  at  it? 

Also  do  I  remember  certain  spruce 
woods  with  openings  where  the  sun 
shone  through.  The  shadows  were  very 
black,  the  sunlight  very  white.  As  I 
looked  back  I  could^'see  the  pack-horses 
alternately  suffer  eclipse  and  illumina 
tion  in  a  strange  flickering  manner  good 
to  behold.  The  dust  of  the  trail  eddied 
and  billowed  lazily  in  the  sun,  each 
mote  flashing  as  though  with  life ;  then 
abruptly  as  it  crossed  the  sharp  line  of 
shade  it  disappeared. 

From  these  spruce  woods,  level  as  a 
floor,  we  came  out  on  the  rounded 
shoulder  of  a  mountain  to  find  ourselves 
nearly  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 


Below  us  was  a  deep  canon  to  the  mid 
dle  of  the  earth.  And  spread  in  a  semi 
circle  about  the  curve  of  our  mountain 
a  most  magnificent  'panoramic  view. 
First  there  were  the  plains,  represented 
by  a  brown  haze  of  heat ;  then,  very 
remote,  the  foot-hills,  the  brush  hills,  the 
pine  mountains,  the  upper  timber,  the 
tremendous  granite  peaks,  and  finally 
the  barrier  of  the  main  crest  with  its 
glittering  snow.  From  the  plains  to  that 
crest  was  over  seventy  miles.  I  should 
not  dare  say  how  far  we  could  see  down 
the  length  of  the  range ;  nor  even  how 
distant  was  the  other  wall  of  the  canon 
over  which  we  rode.  Certainly  it  was 
many  miles ;  and  to  reach  the  latter 
point  consumed  three  days. 

It  is  useless  to  multiply  instances. 
The  principle  is  well  enough  established 
by  these.  Whatever  impression  of  your 
trail  you  carry  away  will  come  from  the 
little  common  occurrences  of  every  day. 
That  is  true  of  all  trails ;  and  equally 
so,  it  seems  to  me,  of  our  Trail  of  Life 
sketched  at  the  beginning  of  this  essay. 

But  the  trail  of  the  mountains  .means 
more  than  wonder ;  it  means  hard 
work.  Unless  you  stick  to  the  beaten 
path,  where  the  freighters  have  lost 
so  many  mules  that  they  have  finally 
decided  to  fix  things  up  a  bit,  you  are 
due  for  lots  of  trouble.  •  Bad  places  will 
come  to  be  a  nightmare  with  you  and  a 
topic  of  conversation  with  whomever 
you  may  meet.  We  once  enjoyed  the 
company  of  a  prospector  three  days 
while  he  made  up  his  mind  to  tackle  a 
certain  bit  of  trail  we  had  just  descended. 
Our  accounts  did  not  encourage  him. 
Every  morning  he  used  to  squint  up  at  the 
cliff  which  rose  some  four  thousand  feet 
above  us.  "  Boys,"  he  said  finally,  as 
he  started,  "  I  may  drop  in  on  you  later 
in  the  morning."  I  am  happy  to  say  he 
did  not. 

The  most  discouraging  to  the  tender 
foot,  but  in  reality  the  safest  of  all  bad 
trails,  is  the  one  that  skirts  a  precipice. 
Your  horse  possesses  a  laudable  desire 
to  spare  your  inside  leg  unnecessary 
abrasion,  so  he  walks  on  the  extreme 
outer  edge.  If  you  watch  the  perform 
ance  of  the  animal  ahead,  you  will 
observe  that  every  few  moments  his  outer 
hind  hoof  slips  off  that  edge,  knocking 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


603 


little  stones  down  into  the  abyss.  Then 
you  conclude  that  sundry  slight  jars  you 
have  been  experiencing  are  from  the 
same  cause.  Your  peace  of  mind  deserts 
you.  You  stare  straight  ahead,  sit  very 
light  indeed,  and  perhaps  turn  the  least 
bit  sick.  The  horse,  however,  does  not 
mind,  nor  will  you,  after  a  little.  There 
is  absolutely  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit 
steady  and  give  your  animal  his  head. 
In  a  fairly  extended  experience  I  never 
got  off  the  edge  but  once.  Then  some 
body  shot  a  gun  immediately  ahead ;  my 
horse  tried  to  turn  around,  slipped,  and 
slid  backwards  until  he  overhung  the 
chasm.  Fortunately,  his  hind  feet  caught 
a  tiny  bush.  He  gave  a  mighty  heave, 
and  regained  the  trail.  Afterwards  I 
took  a  look  and  found  that  there  were 
no  more  bushes  for  a  hundred  feet  either 
way. 

Next  in  terror  to  the  unaccustomed 
is  an  ascent  by  lacets  up  a  very  steep 
side  hill.  The  effect  is  cumulative.  Each 
turn  brings  you  one  stage  higher,  adds 
definitely  one  more  unity  to  the  test  of 
your  hardihood.  This  last  has  not  ter 
rified  you  ;  how  about  the  next  ?  or  the 
next  ?  or  the  one  after  that  ?  There  is 
not  the  slightest  danger.  You  appreciate 
this  point  after  you  have  met  head-on 
some  old-timer.  After  you  have  specu 
lated  frantically  how  you  are  to  pass 
him,  he  solves  the  problem  by  calmly 
turning  his  horse  off  the  edge  and  slid 
ing  to  the  next  lacet  below.  Then  you 
see  that  with  a  mountain  horse  it  does 
not  much  matter  whether  you  get  off 
such  a  trail  or  not. 

The  real  bad  places  are  quite  as  likely 
to  be  on  the  level  as  on  the  slant.  The 
tremendous  granite  slides,  where  the 
cliff  has  avalanched  thousands  of  tons 
of  loose  jagged  rock-fragments  across  the 
passage,  are  the  worst.  There  your 
horse  has  to  be  a  goat  in  balance.  He 
must  pick  his  way  from  the  top  of  one 
fragment  to  the  other,  and  if  he  slips  into 
the  interstices  he  probably  breaks  a  leg. 
In  some  parts  of  the  granite  country  are 
also  smooth  rock  aprons  where  footing 
is  especially  difficult,  and  where  often  a 
slip  on  them  means  a  toboggan  chute  off 
into  space.  I  know  of  one  spot  where 
such  an  apron  curves  off  the  shoulder  of 
the  mountain.  Your  horse  slides  directly ' 


down  it  until  his  hoofs  encounter  a  little 
crevice.  Checking  at  this,  he  turns 
sharp  to  the  left  and  so  off  to  the  good 
trail  again.  If  he  does  not  check  at  the 
little  crevice,  he  slides  on  over  the  curve 
of  the  shoulder  and  lands  too  far  down 
to  bury. 

Loose  rocks  in  numbers  on  a  very 
steep  and  narrow  trail  are  always  an 
abomination,  and  a  numerous  abomina 
tion  at  that.  A  horse  slides,  skates, 
slithers.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that  luck  must  count  largely  in  such  a 
place.  When  the  animal  treads  on  a 
loose  round  stone — as  he  does  every 
step  of  the  way — that  stone  is  going  to 
roll  under  him,  and  he  is  going  to  catch 
himself  as  the  nature  of  that  stone  and 
the  little  gods  of  chance  may  will.  Only, 
furthermore,  I  have  noticed  that  the 
really  good  horse  keeps  his  feet,  and  the 
poor  one  tumbles.  A  judgmatical  rider 
can  help  a  great  deal  by  the  delicacy  of 
his  riding  and  the  skill  with  which  he 
uses  his  reins.  Or,  better  still,  get  off 
and  walk. 

Another  mean  combination,  especially 
on  a  slant,  is  six  inches  of  snow  over 
loose  stones  or  small  boulders.  There 
you  hope  for  divine  favor  and  flounder 
ahead.  There  is  one  compensation; 
the  snow  is  soft  to  fall  on.  Boggy  areas 
you  must  be  able  to  gauge  the  depth -of 
at  a  glance.  And  there  are  places, 
beautiful  to  behold,  where  a  horse 
clambers  up  the  least  bit  of  an  ascent, 
hits  his  pack  against  a  projection,  and 
is  hurled  into  outer  space.  You  must 
recognize  these,  for  he  will  be  busy  with 
his  feet. 

Some  of  the  mountain  rivers  furnish 
pleasing  afternoons  of  sport.  They  are 
deep  and  swift,  and  below  the  ford  are 
rapids.  If  there  is  a  fallen  tree  of  any 
sort  across  them — remember  the  length 
of  California  trees,  and  do  not  despise 
the  rivers — you  would  better  unpack, 
carry  your  goods  across  yourself,  and 
swim  the  pack-horses.  If  the  current  is 
very  bad,  you  can  splice  riatas,  hitch 
one  end  to  the  horse  and  the  other  to  a 
tree  on  the  farther  side,  and  start  the 
combination.  The  animal  is  bound  to 
swing  across  somehow.  Generally  you 
can  drive  them  over  loose.  In  swimming 
a  horse  from  the  saddle,  start  him  well 


604 


The  Outlook 


upstream  to  allow  for  the  current,  and 
never,  never,  never  attempt  to  guide  him 
by  the  bit.  The  Tenderfoot  tried  that 
at  Mono  Creek  and  nearly  drowned  him 
self  and  Old  Slob.  You  would  better 
let  him  alone,  as  he  probably  knows 
more  than  you  do.  If  you  must  guide 
him,  do  it  by  hitting  the  side  of  his  head 
with  the  flat  of  your  hand. 

Sometimes  it  is  better  that  you  swim. 
You  can  perform  that  feat  by  clinging 
to  his  mane  on  the  downstream  side  ; 
but  it  will  be  easier  both  for  you  and 
him  if  you  hang  to  his  tail.  Take  my 
word  for  it,  he  will  not  kick  you. 

Once  in  a  blue  moon  you  may  be  able 
to  cross  the  whole  outfit  on  logs.  Such 
a  log  bridge  spanned  Granite  Creek 
near  the  North  Fork  of  the  San  Joaquin 
at  an  elevation  of  about  seven  thousand 
feet.  It  was  suspended  a  good  twenty 
feet  above  the  water,  which  boiled  white 
in  a  most  disconcerting  manner  through 
a  gorge  of  rocks.  If  anything  fell  off 
that  log,  it  would  be  of  no  further  value 
even  to  the  curiosity-seeker.  We  got 
over  all  the  horses  save  Tunemah.  He 
refused  to  consider  it,  nor  did  peaceful 
argument  win.  As  he  was  more  or  less 
of  a  fool,  we  did  not  take  this  as  a 
reflection  on  our  judgment,  but  culled 
cedar  clubs.  We  beat  him  until  we  were 
ashamed.  Then  we  put  a  slip-noose 
about  his  neck.  The  Tenderfoot  and  I 
stood  on  the  log  and  heaved  while  Wes 


stood  on  the  shore  and  pushed.  Sud 
denly  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  Tunemah 
made  up  his  silly  mind  to  come,  he 
would  probably  do  it  all  at  once,  in 
which  case  the  Tenderfoot  and  I  would 
have  about  as  much  show  for  life  as 
fossil  formations.  I  didn't  say  anything 
about  it  to  the  Tenderfoot,  but  I  hitched 
my  six-shooter  around  to  the  front, 
resolved  to  find  out  how  good  I  was 
at  wing-shooting  horses.  But  Tunemah 
declared  he  would  die  for  his  convic 
tions.  "  All  right,"  said  we,  "  die  then," 
with  the  embellishment  of  profanity. 
So  we  stripped  him  naked,  and  stoned 
him  into  the  raging  stream,  where  he 
had  one  chance  in  three  of  coming 
through  alive.  He  might  as  well  be 
dead  as  on  the  other  side  of  that  stream. 
He  won  through,  however,  and  now  I 
believe  he'd  tackle  a  tight  rope. 

Of  such  is  the  Trail,  of  such  its  won 
ders,  its  pleasures,  its  little  comforts,  its 
annoyances,  its  dangers.  And  when  you 
are  forced  to  draw  your  six-shooter  to 
end  mercifully  the  life  of  an  animal  that 
has  served  you  faithfully,  but  that  has 
fallen  victim  to  the  leg-breaking  hazard 
of  the  way,  then  you  know  a  little  of  its 
tragedy  also.  May  you  never  know  the 
greater  tragedy,  when  a  man's  life  goes 
out,  and  you  unable  to  help !  May  al 
ways  your  trail  lead  through  fine  trees, 
green  grasses,  fragrant  flowers,  and 
pleas  ant  waters ! 


Now 

By  Liska  Still  man 

Centuries  of  color  may  burn  in  the  west, 
And  whole  seas  of  dawn  in  the  east  reply, 
Before  the  sun's  heart  shall  at  anchor  lie, 
Before  moon  and  star  grown  tired  of  quest, 
Or  heavenly  lips  to  this  earth  are  pressed. 
Yet  ever,  anon,  through  the  spirit's  cry, 
There  cometh  a  breath,  a  vow  from  the  sky, 
That  sinks  the  soul  into  fathoms  of  rest. 

Already  befallen  is  day  of  doom, 
And,  woven  fast  in  eternity's  loom, 
Glistening  the  threads  of  the  past  shine  clear ; 
While  afar  in  the  deeps  of  the  atmosphere 
The  rays  of  the  future  separate  gloom, 
And  soul  of  the  farthest  dream  draws  near. 


THE  MOUNTAINS' 

BY    STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  THE   FOREST,"   "  THE   BLAZED   TRAIL,"  "  THE   SILENT   PLACES,"  ETC. 


X. — On   Seeing   Deer 


ONCE  I  happened  to  be  sitting 
out  a  dance  with  a  tactful  young 
girl  of  tender  disposition  who 
thought  she  should  adapt  her  conversa 
tion  to  the  one  with  whom  she  happened 
to  be  talking.  Therefore  she  asked 
questions  concerning  out-of-doors.  She 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  it,  but  she 
gave  a  very  good  imitation  of  one  inter 
ested.  For  some  occult  reason,  people 
never  seem  to  expect  me  to  own  evening 
clothes,  or  to  know  how  to  dance,  or  to 
be  able  to  talk  about  anything  civilized ; 
in  fact,  most  of  them  appear  disappoint 
ed  that  I  do  not  pull  off  a  war- jig  in  the 
middle  of  the  drawing-room. 

This  young  girl  selected  deer  as  her 
topic.  She  mentioned  liquid  eyes,  beau 
tiful  form,  slender  ears ;  she  said  "  cute," 
and  "  darlings,"  and  "  perfect  dears." 
Then  she  shuddered  prettily. 

"  And  I  don't  see  how  you  can  ever 
bear  to  shoot  them,  Mr.  White,"  she 
concluded. 

"  You  quarter  the  onions  and  slice 
them  very  thin,"  said  I,  dreamily. 
"  Then  you  take  a  little  bacon  fat  you 
had  left  over  from  the  flapjacks  and 
put  it  in  the  frying-pan.  The  frying- 
pan  should  be  very  hot.  While  the 
onions  are  frying,  you  must  keep  turning 
them  over  with  a  fork.  It's  rather  diffi 
cult  to  get  them  all  browned  without 
burning,  some.  I  should  broil  the  meat. 
A  broiler  is  handy,  but  two  willows, 
peeled  and  charred  a  little  so  the  willow 
taste  won't  penetrate  the  meat,  will  do. 
Have  the  steak  fairly  thick.  Pepper 
and  salt  it  thoroughly.  Sear  it  well  at 
first  in  order  to  keep  the  juices  in  ;  then 
cook  rather  slowly.  When  it  is  done,  put 
it  on  a  hot  plate  and  pour  the  browned 
onions,  bacon  fat  and  all,  over  it." 
1  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  she 
interrupted.  ^ 

"  I'm  telling  you  why  I  can  bear  to 
shoot  deer,"  said  I. 

"  But  I  don't  see — "  said  she. 

"  Don't  you  ?"  said  I.  "  Well ;  sup 
pose  you've  been  climbing  a  mountain 
late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  sun  is 
on  the  other  side  of  it.  It  is  a  moun 
tain  of  big  boulders,  loose  little  stones, 
thorny  bushes.  The  slightest  misstep 
would  send  pebbles  rattling,  brush  rus 
tling;  but  you  have  gone  all  the  way 
without  making  that  misstep.  This  is 
quite  a  feat.  It  means  that  you've  known 
all  about  every  footstep  you've  taken. 
That  would  be  business  enough  for  most 
people,  wouldn't  it  ?  But  in  addition 
you've  managed  to  see  every  thing  on  that 
side  of  the  mountain — especially  patches 
of  brown.  You've  seen  lots  of  patches  of 
brown,  and  you've  examined  each  one 
of  them.  Besides  that,  you've  heard 
lots  of  little  rustlings,  and  you've  identi 
fied  each  one  of  them.  To  do  all  these 
things  well  keys  your  nerves  to  a  high 
tension,  doesn't  it  ?  And  then  near  the 
top  you  look  up  from  your  last  noiseless 
step  to  see  in  the  brush  a  very  dim 
patch  of  brown.  If  you  hadn't  been 
looking  so  hard,  you  surely  wouldn't 
have  made  it  out.  Perhaps,  if  you're 
not  humble-minded,  you  may  reflect 
that  most  people  wouldn't  have  seen  it 
at  all.  You  whistle  once  sharply.  The 
patch  of  brown  defines  itself.  Your 
heart  gives  one  big  jump.  You  know 
that  you  have  but  the  briefest  moment, 
the'  tiniest  fraction  of  time,  to  hold  the 
white  bead  of  your  rifle  motionless  and  to 
press  the  trigger.  It  has  to  be  done 
very  steadily,  at  that  distance — and  you 
out  of  breath,  with  your  nerves  keyed 
high  in  the  tension  of  such  caution." 

649 


650 


The  Outlook 


[16  July 


"  Now  what  are  you  talking  about  ?" 
she  broke  in  helplessly. 

"  Oh,  didn't  I  mention  it  ?"  I  asked, 
surprised.  "  I  was  telling  you  why  I 
could  bear  to  shoot  deer." 

"  Yes,  but — "  she  began. 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  reassured  her. 
"  After  all,  it's  very  simple.  The  reason 
I  can  bear  to  kill  deer  is  because,  to 
kill  deer,  you  must  accomplish  a  skillful 
elimination  of  the  obvious." 

My  young  lady  was  evidently  afraid 
of  being  considered  stupid;  and  also 
convinced  of  her  inability  to  understand 
what  I  was  driving  at.  So  she  tempo 
rized  in  the  manner  of  society. 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  com 
plete  enlightenment. 

Now  of  course  she  did  not  see.  No 
body  could  see  the  force  of  that  last 
remark  without  the  grace  of  further  ex 
planation  ;  and  yet  in  the  elimination  of 
the  obvious  rests  the  whole  secret  of 
seeing  deer  in  the  woods. 

In  traveling  the  trail  you  will  notice 
two  things  :  that  a  tenderfoot  will  habit 
ually  contemplate  the  horn  of  his  saddle 
or  the  trail  a  few  yards  ahead  of  his 
horse's  nose,  with  occasionally  a  look 
about  at  the  landscape  ;  and  the  old- 
timer  will  be  constantly  searching  the 
prospect  with  keen,  understanding  eyes. 
Now  in  the  occasional  glances  the  tender 
foot  takes,  his  perceptions  have  room 
for  just  so  many  impressions.  When 
the  number  is  filled  out,  he  sees  nothing 
more.  Naturally,  the  obvious  features  of 
the  landscape  supply  the  basis  for  these 
impressions.  He  sees  the  configuration 
of  the  mountains,  the  nature  of  their 
covering,  the  course  of  their  ravines, 
first  of  all.  Then,  if  he  looks  more 
closely,  there  catches  his  eye  an  odd- 
shaped  rock,  a  burned  black  stub,  a 
flowering  bush,  or  some  such  matter. 
Anything  less  striking  in  its  appeal  to 
the  attention  actually  has  not  room  for 
its  recognition.  In  other  words,  suppos 
ing  that  a  man  has  the  natural  ability  to 
receive  x  visual  impressions,  the  tender 
foot  fills  out  his  full  capacity  with  the 
striking  features  of  his  surroundings. 
To  be  able  to  see  anything  more  obscure 
in  form  or  color,  he  must  naturally  put 
aside  from  his  attention  some  one  or 
another  of  these  obvious  features.  He 


can,  for  example,  look  for  a  particular 
kind  of  flower  on  a  side  hill  only  by 
refusing  to  see  other  kinds. 

If  this  is  plain,  then,  go  one  step 
further  in  the  logic  of  thit  reasoning. 
Put  yourself  in  the  mental  attitude  of  a 
man  looking  for  deer.  His  eye  sweeps 
rapidly  over  a  side  hill ;  so  rapidly  that 
you  cannot  understand  how  he  can  have 
gathered  the  main  features  of  that  hill, 
let  alone  concentrate  and  refine  his 
attention  to  the  seeing  of  an  animal 
under  a  bush.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
pays  no  attention  to  the  main  features. 
He  has  trained  his  eye,  not  so  much  to 
see  things,  as  to  leave  things  out.  The 
odd-shaped  rock,  the  charred  stub,  the 
bright  flowering  bush,  do  not  exist  for 
him.  His  eye  passes  over  them  as  un 
seeing  as  yours  over  the  patch  of  brown 
or  gray  that  represents  his  quarry.  His 
attention  stops  on  the  unusual,  just  as 
does  yours  ;  only  in  his  case  the  unusual 
is  not  the  obvious.  He  has  succeeded 
by  long  training  in  eliminating  that. 
Therefore  he  sees  deer  where  you  do 
not.  As  soon  as  you  can  forget  the 
naturally  obvious  and  construct  an  arti 
ficially  obvious,  then  you  too  will  see 
deer. 

These  animals  are  strangely  invisible 
to  the  untrained  eye  even  when  they  are 
standing  "  in  plain  sight."  You  can 
look  straight  at  them  and  not  see  them 
at  all.  Then  some  old  woodsman  lets 
you  sight  over  his  finger  exactly  to  the 
spot.  At  once  the  figure  of  the  deer 
fairly  leaps  into  vision.  I  know  of  no 
more  perfect  example  of  the  instanta 
neous  than  this.  You  are  filled  with 
astonishment  that  you  could  for  a  mo 
ment  have  avoided  seeing  it.  And  yet 
next  time  you  will  in  all  probability 
repeat  just  this  "  puzzle  picture  "  experi 
ence. 

The  Tenderfoot  tried  for  six  weeks 
before  he  caught  sight  of  one.  He 
wanted  to  very  much.  Time  and  again 
one  or  the  other  of  us  would  hiss  back, 
"  See  the  deer  1  over  there  by  the  yellow 
bush  1"  but  before  he  could  bring  the 
deLberation  of  his  scrutiny  to  the  point 
of  identification,  the  deer  would  be  gone. 
Once  a  fawn  jumped  fairly  within  ten 
feet  of  the  pack-horses  and  went  bound 
ing  away  through  the  bushes,  and  that 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


651 


fawn  he  could  not  help  seeing.  We 
tried  conscientiously  enough  to  get  him 
a  shot ;  but  the  Tenderfoot  was  unable 
to  move  through  the  brush  less  majes 
tically  than  a  Pullman  car,  so  we  had 
ended  by  becoming  apathetic  on  the 
subject. 

Finally,  while  descending  a  very 
abrupt  mountain-side,  I  made  out  a  buck 
lying  down  perhaps  three  hundred  feet 
directly  below  us.  The  buck  was  not 
looking  our  way,  so  I  had  time  to  call 
the  Tenderfoot.  He  came.  With  diffi 
culty  and  by  using  my  rifle-barrel  as  a 
pointer  I  managed  to  show  him  the 
animal.  Immediately  he  began  to  pant 
as  though  at  the  finish  of  a  mile  race, 
and  his  rifle,  when  he  leveled  it,  covered 
a  good  half  acre  of  ground.  This  would 
never  do. 

"  Hold  on  1"  I  interrupted,  sharply. 

He  lowered  his  weapon  to  stare  at  me 
wild-eyed. 

u  What  is  it  ?"  he  gasped. 

"  Stop  a  minute  1"  I  commanded. 
"  Now  take  three  deep  breaths." 

He  did  so. 

"  Now  shoot,"  I  advised,  "  and  aim 
at  his  knees." 

The  deer  was  now  on  his  feet,  and 
facing  us,  so  the  Tenderfoot  had  the 
entire  length  of  the  animal  to  allow  for 
lineal  variation.  He  fired.  The  deer 
dropped.  The  Tenderfoot  thrust  his 
hat  over  one  eye,  rested  hand  on  hip  in 
a  manner  cocky  to  behold. 

"Simply  slaughter!"  he  proffered, 
with  lofty  scorn. 

We  descended.  The  bullet  had  brok 
en  the  deer's  back — about  six  inches 
from  the  tail.  The  Tenderfoot  had  over 
shot  by  at  least  three  feet. 

You  will  see  many  deer  thus  from  the 
trail — in  fact,  we  kept  up  our  meat  sup 
ply  from  the  saddle,  as  one  might  say — 
but  to  enjoy  the  fine  savor  of  seeing 
deer  you  should  start  out  definitely  with 
that  object  in  view.  Thus  you  have 
opportunity  for  the  display  of  a  certain 
finer  woodcraft.  You  must  know  where 
the  objects  of  your  search  are  likely  to 
be  found,  and  that  depends  on  the  time 
of  year,  the  time  of  day,  their  age,  their 
sex,  a  hundred  little  things.  When  the 
bucks  carry  antlers  in  the  velvet,  they 
frequent  the  inaccessibilities  of  the  higtv 


est  rocky  peaks,  so  their  tender  horns 
may  not  be  torn  in  the  brush,  but  never 
theless  so  that  the  advantage  of  a  lofty 
viewpoint  may  compensate  for  the  loss 
of  cover.  Later  you  will  find  them  in 
the  open  slopes  of  a  lower  altitude,  fully 
exposed  to  the  sun,  that  there  the  heat 
may  harden  the  antlers.  Later  still,  the 
heads  in  fine  condition  and  tough  to 
withstand  scratches,  they  plunge  into 
the  dense  thickets.  But  in  the  mean 
time  the  fertile  does  have  sought  a  lower 
country,  with  patches  of  small  brush 
interspersed  with  open  passages.  There 
they  can  feed  with  their  fawns,  com 
pletely  concealed,  but  able,  by  merely 
raising  the  head,  to  survey  the  entire 
landscape  for  the  threatening  of  danger. 
The  barren  does,  on  the  other  hand, 
you  will  find  through  the  timber  and 
brush,  for  they  are  careless  of  all  respon 
sibilities  either  to  offspring  or  headgear. 
These  are  but  a  few  of  the  considera 
tions  you  will  take  into  account,  a  very 
few  of  the  many  which  lend  the  deer 
countries  strange  thrills  of  delight  over 
new  knowledge  gained,  over  crafty  ex 
pedients  invented  or  well  utilized,  over 
the  satisfactory  matching  of  your  reason, 
your  instinct,  your  subtlety  and  skill 
against  the  reason,  instinct,  subtlety,  and 
skill  of  one  of  the  wariest  of  large  wild 
animals. 

Perversely  enough,  the  times  when  you 
did  not  see  deer  are  more  apt  to  remain 
vivid  in  your  memory  than  the  times 
when  you  did.  I  can  still  see  distinctly 
sundry  wide  jump-marks  where  the  ani 
mal  I  was  tracking  had  evidently  caught 
sight  of  me,  and  lit  out  before  I  came 
up  to  him.  Equally,  sundry  little  thin 
disappearing  clouds  of  dust;  cracklings 
of  brush,  growing  ever  more  distant ; 
the  tops  of  bushes  waving  to  the  steady 
passage  of  something  remaining  persist 
ently  concealed — these  are  the  chief 
ingredients,  often  repeated,  which  make 
up  deer-stalking  memory.  When  I  think 
of  seeing  deer,  these  things  automatically 
rise. 

A  few  of  the  deer  actually  seen  do, 
however,  stand  out  clearly  from  the 
many.  When  I  was  a  very  small  boy 
possessed  of  a  32-20  rifle  and  large 
ambitions,  I  followed  the  advantage  my 
father's  footsteps  made  me  in  the  deep 


652 


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[16  July 


snow  of  an  unused  logging-road.  His 
attention  was  focused  on  some  very  in 
teresting  fresh  tracks.  I,  being  a  small 
boy,  cared  not  at  all  for  tracks,  and  so 
saw  a  big  doe  emerge  from  the  bushes 
not  ten  yards  away,  lope  leisurely  across 
the  road,  and  disappear,  wagging  ear 
nestly  her  tail.  When  I  had  recovered 
my  breath,  I  vehemently  demanded  the 
sense  of  fooling  with  tracks  when  there 
were  real  live  deer  to  be  had.  My 
father  examined  me. 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  shoot  her  ?" 
he  inquired,  dryly. 

I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 

In  the  spring  of  1900  I  was  at  the  head 


of  the  Piant  River  waiting  for  the  log- 
drive  to  start.  One  morning,  happening 
to  walk  over  a  slashing  of  many  years 
before  in  which  had  grown  a  strong 
thicket  of  white  popples,  I  jumped  a 
band  of  nine  deer.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  bewildering  impression  made  by  the 
glancing,  dodging,  bouncing  white  of 
those  nine  snowy  tails  and  .rumps. 

But  most  wonderful  of  all  was  a  great 
buck,  of  I  should  be  afraid  to  say  how 
many  points,  that  stood  silhouetted  on 
the  extreme  end  of  a  ridge  high  above 
our  camp..  The  time  was  just  after  twi 
light,  and  as  we  watched,  the  sky  light 
ened  behind  him  in  prophecy  of  the  moon. 


Social   Life   and   the   Christian   Ministry 

By  Josiah  Strong,  D.D. 

President  of  the  American  Institute  of  Social  Service 

At  the  second  annual  Conference  to  which  the  students  of  Union  Theological  Seminary, 
New  York,  invited  students  from  several  colleges  for  the  purpose  of  considering  the  work 
of  the  ministry,  addresses  on  various  aspects  of  the  ministry  were  given  by  men  chosen 
for  their  expert  knowledge  of  these  aspects.  Interest  in  the  function  of  the  ministry  is  not, 
however,  confined  to  those  who  make  it  their  profession;  it  extends  to  people  generally 
both  within  and  without  the  Church.  This  is  due  to  the  fact  that  what  service  a  minister 
renders  is  largely  determined  by  what  people  expect  of  him.  It  is,  moreover,  coming 
more  and  more  to  be  recognized  that  the  work  of  the  ministry  is  in  its  broadest  aspects  the 
work  of  the  whole  Church.  Dr.  Strong's  address,  given  at  the  Conference  and  here  pub 
lished  in  revised  form,  presents  the  work  of  the  ministry  in  that  aspect  which  most  vitally 
concerns  the  community  at  large. — THE  EDITORS. 


SOME  twelve  or  fifteen  years  ago  I 
had  an  interview  with  one  of  the 
most  prominent  preachers  of  the 
city  and  of  the  Nation — a  man  whose 
point  of  view  was  the  older,  or  individ 
ualistic  ;  a  man  whose  fame  was  in  all 
the  churches.  You  have  doubtless  been 
referred  to  his  sermons,  and  have  read 
them,  as  models  of  expository  preaching. 
It  was  just  after  a  vigorous  but  unsuc 
cessful  attempt  had  been  made  to  redeem 
the  city  from  the  power  of  the  corrupt 
and  corrupting  government  which  then 
ruled  it — an  effort  led  by  the  ministry, 
and  especially  by  Dr.  Parkhurst.  The 
gentleman  referred  to  had  been  con 
spicuously  absent  from  these  meetings 
held  in  the  churches.  He  said  to  me  : 
"  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  I  never 
turn  aside  from  my  proper  work,  which 
is  the  building  of  character."  , 

Now,    I  shall    not   quarrel   with   his 


definition  of  the  proper  work  of  the 
ministry,  but  he  was  uninformed  as  to 
the  influences  which  mold  character. 
Have  the  saloon,  the  brothel,  the  gam 
bling  hell,  and  the  evils  of  the  tenement 
no  relations  to  character  in  this  com 
munity  ?  Character  is  always  shaped, 
determined,  by  three  things :  heredity, 
environment,  will.  Heredity  is  all  that 
the  little  child  brings  with  him  into  life. 
Environment  includes  all  the  conditions," 
physical,  moral,  intellectual,  social,  into 
which  he  is  born.  Generally  speaking, 
heredity  and  environment  determine  the 
action  of  the  will,  which  is  decisive  in 
forming  character.  There  are  excep 
tions,  doubtless.  Dickens  was  very  fond 
of  bringing  his  fairest  flowers  out  of 
roots  grown  in  the  mire  of  the  slums, 
and  no  doubt  there  are  such  instances — 
characters  that  do  not  seem  to  be 
smirched  by  evil  surroundings;  but, 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

BY    STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  THE  FOREST,"   "  THE  BLAZED  TRAIL,"  "  THE   SILENT  PLACES,"  ETC. 


XI The   Tenderfoot1 


THE  tenderfoot  is  a  queer  beast. 
He  makes  more  trouble  than 
ants  at  a  picnic,  more  work  than 
a  trespassing  goat ;  he  never  sees  any 
thing,  knows  where  anything  is,  remem 
bers  accurately  your  instructions,  follows 
them  if  remembered,  or  is  able  to  handle 
without  awkwardness  his  large  and 
pathetic  hands  and  feet;  he  is  always 
lost,  always  falling  off  or  into  things, 
always  in  difficulties ;  his  articles  of 
necessity  are  constantly  being  burned 
up  or  washed  away  or  mislaid  ;  he  looks 
at  you  beamingly  through  great  inno 
cent  eyes  in  the  most  chuckle-headed  of 
manners  ;  he  exasperates  you  to  within 
an  inch  of  explosion — and  yet  you  love 
him. 

I  am  referring  now  to  the  real  tender 
foot,  the  fellow  who  cannot  learn,  who  is 
incapable  ever  of  adjusting  himself  to 
the  demands  of  the  wild  life.  Sometimes 
a  man  is  merely  green,  inexperienced. 
But  give  him  a  chance  and  he  soon  picks 
up  the  game.  That  is  your  greenhorn, 
not  your  tenderfoot.  Down  near  Mon- 
ache  meadows  we  came  across  an  indi 
vidual  leading  an  old  pack-mare  up  the 
trail.  The  first  thing,  he  asked  us  to 
tell  him  where  he  was.  We  did  so. 
Then  we  noticed  that  he  carried  his 
gun  muzzle-up  in  his  hip-pocket,  which 
seemed  to  be  a  nice  way  to  shoot  a  hole 
in  your  hand,  but  a  poor  way  to  make 
your  weapon  accessible.  He  unpacked 
near  us,  and  promptly  turned  the  mare 
into  a  bog-hole  because  it  looked  green. 
Then  he  stood  around  the  rest  of  the 


*  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 

a  The  author  has  followed  a  true  sequence  of  events 
practically  in  all  particulars  save  in  respect  to  the 
character  of  the  Tenderfoot.  He  is  in  one  sense  ficti 
tious  ;  in  another  sense  real.  He  is  real  in  that  he  is  the 
apotheosis  of  many  tenderfeet,  and  that  everything  he 
does  in  this  narrative  he  has  done  at  one  time  or 
another  in  the  author's  experience.  He  is  fictitious  in 
the  sense  that  he  is  in  no  way  to  be  identified  with  the 
third  member  of  our  party  in  the  actual  trip. 


evening  and  talked  deprecating  talk  of 
a  garrulous  nature. 

"  Which  way  did  you  come  ?"  asked 
Wes. 

The  stranger  gave  us  a  hazy  account 
of  misnamed  canons,  by  which  we  gath 
ered  that  he  had  come  directly  over  the 
rough  divide  below  us. 

"  But  if  you  wanted  to  get  to  Monache, 
why  didn't  you  go  around  to  the  east 
ward  through  that  pass,  there,  and  save 
yourself  all  the  climb  ?  It  must  have 
been  pretty  rough  through  there." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  so,"  he  hesitated. 
"  Still — I  got  lots  of  time — I  can  take 
all  summer,  if  I  want  to — and  I'd  rather 
stick  to  a  straight  line — then  you  know 
where  you  are — if  you  get  off  the  straight 
line,  you're  likely  to  get  lost,  you  know." 

We  knew  well  enough  what  ailed  him, 
of  course.  He  was  a  tenderfoot,  of  the 
sort  that  always,  to  its  dying  day,  un- 
hobbles  its  horses  before  putting  their 
halters  on.  Yet  that  man  for  thirty-two 
years  had  lived  almost  constantly  in  the 
wild  countries.  He  had  traveled  more 
miles  with  a  pack-train  than  we  shall 
ever  dream  of  traveling,  and  hardly  could 
we  mention  a  famous  camp  of  the  last 
quarter-century  that  he  had  not  blun 
dered  into.  Moreover,  he  proved  by  the 
indirections  of  his  misinformation  that 
he  had  really  been  there  and  was  not 
making  ghost  stories  in  order  to  impress 
us.  Yet,  if  the  Lord  spares  him  thirty- 
two  years  more,  at  the  end  of  that  time 
he  will  probably  still  be  carrying  his 
gun  upside  down,  turning  his  horse  into 
a  bog-hole,  and  blundering  through  the 
country  by  main  strength  and  awkward 
ness.  He  was  a  beautiful  type  of  the 
tenderfoot. 

The  redeeming  point  of  the  tenderfoot 
is  his  humbleness  of  spirit  and  his  ex 
treme  good  nature.  He  exasperates  you 

695 


696 


The  Outlook 


[23  July 


with  his  fool  performances  to  the  point 
of  dancing,  cursing,  wild,  crying  rage, 
and  then  accepts  your — well  1 — reproofs 
so  meekly  that  you  come  off  the  boil  as 
though  some  one  had  removed  you  from 
the  fire,  and  you  feel  like  a  low-browed 
thug. 

Suppose  your  particular  tenderfoot  to 
be  named  Algernon.  Suppose  him  to 
have  packed  his  horse  loosely — they 
always  do — so  that  the  pack  has  slipped, 
the  horse  has  bucked  over  three  square 
miles  of  assorted  mountains,  and  the 
rest  of  the  train  is  scattered  over  iden 
tically  that  area.  You  have  run  your 
saddle-horse  to  a  lather  heading  the  out 
fit.  You  have  sworn  and  dodged  and 
scrambled  and  yelled,  even  fired  your 
six-shooter,  to  turn  them  and  bunch 
them.  In  the  meantime  Algernon  has 
either  sat  his  horse  like  a  park  police 
man  in  his  leisure  hours,  or  has  ambled 
directly  into  your  path  of  pursuit  on  an 
average  of  five  times  a  minute.  Then 
the  trouble  dies  from  the  landscape  and 
the  baby  bewilderment  from  his  eyes. 
You  slip  from  your  winded  horse,  and  ad 
dress  Algernon  with  elaborate  courtesy. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  you  remark,  "  did 
you  not  see  that  the  thing  for  you  to  do 
was  to  head  them  down  by  the  bottom 
of  that  little  gulch  there  ?  Don't  you 
really  think  anybody  would  have  seen  it  ? 
What  in  hades  do  you  think  I  wanted 
to  run  my  horse  all  through  those  boul 
ders  for  ?  Do  you  think  I  want  to  get 
him  lame  'way  up  here  in  the  hills  ?  I 
don't  mind  telling  a  man  a  thing  once, 
but  to  tell  it  to  him  fifty-eight  times,  and 
then  have  it  do  no  good —  Have  you 
the  faintest  recollection  of  my  instruct 
ing  you  to  turn  the  bight  over  instead  of 
under  when  you  throw  that  pack-hitch  ? 
If  you'd  remember  that,  we  shouldn't 
have  had  all  this  trouble." 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  to  head  them  by 
the  little  gulch,"  babbles  Algernon. 

This  is  just  the  utterly  fool  reply  that 
upsets  your  artificial  and  elaborate  cour 
tesy.  You  probably  foam  at  the  mouth, 
and  dance  on  your  hat,  and  shriek  wild 
imploring  imprecations  to  the  astonished 
hills.  This  is  not  because  you  have  an 
unfortunate  disposition,  but  because  Al 
gernon  has  been  doing  precisely  the  same 
thing  for  two  months. 


"  Listen  to  him  1"  you  howl.  "  Didn't 
tell  him  1  Why,  you  gangle-legged,  bug- 
eyed,  soft-handed,  pop-eared  tenderfoot, 
you  1  there  are  some  things  you  never 
think  of  telling  a  man.  I  never  told  you 
to  open  your  mouth  to  spit,  either.  If 
you  had  a  hired  man  at  five  dollars  a 
year  who  was  so  all-round  hopelessly 
thick-headed  and  incompetent  as  you  are, 
you'd  fire  him  to-morrow  morning." 

Then  Algernon  looks  truly  sorry,  and 
doesn't  answer  back  as  he  ought  to  in 
order  to  give  occasion  for  the  relief  of  a 
really  soul-satisfying  scrap,  and  utters 
the  soft  answer  humbly.  So  your  wrath 
is  turned  and  there  remain  only  the  dregs 
which  taste  like  some  of  Algernon's 
cooking. 

It  is  rather  good  fun  to  relieve  the 
bitterness  of  the  heart.  Let  me  tell  you 
a  few  more  tales  of  the  tenderfoot,  pre 
mising  always  that  I  love  him,  and  when 
at  home  seek  him  out  to  smoke  pipes  at 
his  fireside,  to  yarn  over  the  trail,  to 
wonder  how  much  rancor  he  cherishes 
against  the  maniacs  who  declaimed 
against  him,  and  by  way  of  compensation 
to  build  up  in  the  mind  of  his  sweet 
heart,  his  wife,  or  his  mother,  a  fearful 
and  wonderful  reputation  for  him  as  the 
Terror  of  the  Trail.  These  tales  are 
selected  from  many"  mere  samples  of  a 
varied  experience.  They  occurred  here, 
there,  and  everywhere,  and  at  various 
times.  Let  no  one  try  to  lay  them  at 
the  door  of  our  Tenderfoot  merely  be 
cause  such  is  his  title  in  this  narrative. 
We  called  him  that  by  way  of  distinc 
tion. 

Once  upon  a  time  some  of  us  were 
engaged  in  climbing  a  mountain  rising 
some  five  thousand  feet  above  our  start 
ing-place.  As  we  toiled  along,  one  of 
the  pack-horses  became  impatient  and 
pushed  ahead.  We  did  not  mind  that, 
especially  as  long  as  she  stayed  in  sight, 
but  in  a  little  while  the  trail  was  closed 
in  by  brush  and  timber. 

"  Algernon,"  said  we,  "  just  push  on 
and  get  ahead  of  that  mare,  will  you  ?" 

Algernon  disappeared.  We  continued 
to  climb.  The  trail  was  steep  and  rather 
bad.  The  labor  was  strenuous,  and  we 
checked  off  each  thousand  feet  with 
thankfulness.  As  we  saw  nothing  further 
of  Algernon,  we  naturally  concluded  he 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


697 


had  headed  the  mare  and  was  continuing 
on  the  trail.  Then  through  a  little 
opening  we  saw  him  riding  cheerfully 
along  without  a  care  to  occupy  his  mind. 
Just  for  luck  we  hailed  him. 

"  Hi  there,  Algernon  I  Did  you  find 
her  ?" 

"  Haven't  seen  her  yet" 

"-Well,  you'd  better  push  on  a  little 
faster.  She  may  leave  the  trail  at  the 
summit." 

Then  one  of  us,  endowed  by  heaven 
with  a  keen  intuitive  instinct  for  tender- 
feet — no  one  could  have  a  knowledge  of 
them,  they  are  too  unexpected — had  an 
inspiration. 

"  I  suppose  there  are  tracks  on  the 
trail  ahead  of  you  ?"  he  called. 

We  stared  at  each  other,  then  at  the 
trail.  Only  one  horse  had  preceded  us 
— that  of  the  tenderfoot.  But  of  course 
Algernon  was  nevertheless  due  for  his 
chuckle-headed  reply. 

"  I  haven't  looked,"  said  he. 

That  raised  the  storm  conventional 
to  such  an  occasion. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  seventeen  little 
dicky-birds  did  you  think  you  were  up 
to  1"  we  howled.  "  Were  you  going  to 
ride  ahead  until  dark  in  the  childlike 
faith  that  that  mare  might  show  up  some 
where  ?  Here's  a  nice  state  of  affairs. 
The  trail  is  all  tracked  up  now  with  our 
horses,  and  heaven  knows  whether  she's 
left  tracks  where  she  turned  off.  It  may 
be  rocky  there." 

We  tied  the  animals  savagely,  and 
started  back  on  foot.  It  would  be  crim 
inal  to  ask  our  saddle-horses  to  repeat 
that  climb.  Algernon  we  ordered  to  stay 
with  them. 

"  And  don't  stir  from  them,  no  matter 
what  happens,  or  you'll  get  lost,"  we  com 
manded,  out  of  the  wisdom  of  long  expe 
rience. 

We  climbed  down  the  four  thousand 
odd  feet,  and  then  back  again,  leading 
the  mare.  She  had  turned  off  not  forty 
rods  from  where  Algernon  had  taken  up 
her  pursuit. 

Your  Algernon  never  does  get  down 
to  little  details  like  tracks — his  scheme 
of  life  is  much  too  magnificent.  To  be 
sure,  he  would  not  know  fresh  tracks  from 
old  if  he  should  see  them  ;  so  it  is  prob 
ably  quite  as  well.  In  the  morning  he 


goes  out  after  the  horses.  The  bunch 
he  finds  easily  enough,  but  one  is  miss 
ing.  What  would  you  do  about  it  ?  You 
would  naturally  walk  in  a  circle  around 
the  bunch  until  you  crossed  the  track  of 
the  truant  leading  away  from  it,  wouldn't 
you  ?  If  you  made  a  wide  enough  circle 
you  would  inevitably  cross  that  track, 
wouldn't  you  ?  provided  the  horse  started 
out  with  the  bunch  in  the  first  place. 
Then  you  would  follow  the  track,  catch 
the  horse,  and  bring  him  back.  Is  this 
Algernon's  procedure  ?  Not  any.  "  Ha !" 
says  he,  "  old  Brownie  is  missing.  I  will 
hunt  him  up."  Then  he  maunders  off  into 
the  scenery,  trusting  to  high  heaven  that 
he  is  going  to  blunder  against  Brownie 
as  a  prominent  feature  of  the  landscape. 
After  a  couple  of  hours  you  probably 
saddle  up  Brownie  and  go  out  to  find 
the  tenderfoot. 

He  has  a  horrifying  facility  in  losing 
himself.  Nothing  is  more  cheering  than 
to  arise  from  a  hard-earned  couch  of 
ease  for  the  purpose  of  trailing  an  Alger 
non  or  so  through  the  gathering  dusk 
to  the  spot  where  he  has  managed  to  find 
something — a  very  real  despair  of  ever 
getting  back  to  food  and  warmth.  Noth 
ing  is  more  irritating  then  than  his 
gratitude. 

I  traveled  once  in  the  Black  Hills 
with  such  a  tenderfoot.  We  were  off 
from  the  base  of  supplies  for  a  ten  days' 
trip,  with  only  a  saddle-horse  apiece. 
This  was  near  first  principles,  as  our 
total  provisions  consisted  of  two  pounds 
of  oatmeal,  some  tea,  and  sugar.  Among 
other  things  we  climbed  Mount  Harney. 
The  trail,  after  we  left  the  horses,  was 
as  plain  as  a  strip  of  Brussels  carpet, 
but  somehow  or  another  that  tenderfoot 
managed  to  get  off  it.  I  hunted  him  up. 
We  gained  the  top,  watched  the  sunset, 
and  started  down.  The  tenderfoot,  I 
thought,  was  fairly  at  my  coat-tails,  but 
when  I  turned  to  speak  to  him  he  had 
gone ;  he  must  have  turned  off  at  one 
of  the  numerous  little  openings  in  the 
brush.  I  sat  down  to  wait.  By  and 
by,  away  down  the  west  slope  of  the 
mountain,  I  heard  a  shot,  and  a  faint, 
a  very  faint,  despairing  yell.  I  also  shot 
and  yelled.  After  various  signals  of  the 
sort  it  became  evident  that  the  tender 
foot  was  approaching.  In  a  moment  he 


698 


The  Outlook 


tore  by  at  full  speed,  his  hat  off,  his  eye 
wild,  his  six-shooter  popping  at  every 
jump.  He  passed  within  six  feet  of  me, 
and  never  saw  me.  Subsequently  I  left 
him  on  the  prairie,  with  accurate  and 
simple  instructions. 

"There's  the  mountain  range.  You 
simply  keep  that  to  your  left  and  ride 
eight  hours.  Then  you'll  see  Rapid 
City.  You  simply  can't  get  lost.  Those 
hills  stick  out  like  a  sore  thumb." 

Two  days  later  he  drifted  into  Rapid 
City,  having  wandered  off  somewhere  to 
the  east.  How  he  had  done  it  I  can 
never  guess.  That  is  his  secret. 

The  tenderfoot  is  always  in  hard  luck. 
Apparently,  too,  by  all  tests  of  analysis, 
it  is  nothing  but  luck,  pure  chance,  mis 
fortune.  And  yet  the  very  persistence 
of  it  in  his  case,  where  another  escapes, 
perhaps  indicates  that  much  of  what  we 
call  good  luck  is  in  reality  unconscious 
skill  in  the  arrangement  of  those  ele 
ments  which  go  to  make  up  events. 
A  persistently  unlucky  man  is  per 
haps  sometimes  to  be  pitied,  but  more 
often  to  be  booted.  That  philosophy 
will  be  cryingly  unjust  about  once  in 
ten. 

But,  lucky  or  unlucky,  the  tenderfoot 
is  human.  Ordinarily  that  doesn't  oc 
cur  to  you.  He  is  a  malevolent  engine 
of  destruction — quite  as  impersonal  as 
heat  or  cold  or  lack  of  water.  He  is  an 
unfortunate  article  of  personal  belong 
ing  requiring  much  looking  after  to  keep 
in  order.  He  is  a  credulous  and  con 
venient  response  to  practical  jokes,  huge 
tales,  misinformation.  He  is  a  laudable 
object  of  attrition  for  the  development 
of  your  character.  But  somehow,  in  the 
woods,  he  is  not  as  other  men,  and  so 
you  do  not  come  to  feel  yourself  in  close 
human  relations  to  him. 

But  Algernon  is  real,  nevertheless. 
He  has  feelings,  even  if  you  do  not 
respect  them.  He  has  his  little  enjoy 
ments,  even  though  he  does  rarely  con 


template  anything  but  the  horn  of  his 
saddle. 

"  Algernon,"  you  cry,  "  for  heaven's 
sake  stick  that  saddle  of  yours  in  a  glass 
case  and  glut  yourself  with  the  sight  of 
its  ravishing  beauties  next  winter.  For 
the  present  do  gaze  on  the  mountains. 
That's  what  you  came  for." 

No  use. 

He  has,  doubtless,  a  full  range  of  all 
the  appreciative  emotions,  though  from 
his  actions  you'd  never  suspect  it.  Most 
human  of  all,  he  possesses  his  little 
vanities. 

Algernon  always  overdoes  the  equip 
ment  question.  If  it  is  bird-shooting, 
he  accumulates  leggings  and  canvas  caps 
and  belts  and  dog-whistles  and  things 
until  he  looks  like  a  picture  from  a  de 
partment-store  catalogue.  In  the  cow 
country  he  wears  Stetson  hats,  snake 
bands,  red  handkerchiefs,  six-shooters, 
chaps,  and  huge  spurs  that  do  not  match 
his  face.  If  it  is  yachting,  he  has  a 
chronometer  with  a  gong  in  the  cabin  of 
a  five-ton  sailboat,  possesses  a  nickel- 
plated  machine  to  register  the  heel  of  his 
craft,  sports  a  brass-bound  yachting-cap 
and  all  the  regalia.  This  is  merely 
amusing.  But  I  never  could  understand 
his  insane  desire  to  get  sunburned.  A 
man  will  get  sunburned  fast  enough  ;  he 
could  not  help  it  if  he  would.  Algernon 
usually  starts  out  from  town  without  a 
hat.  Then  he  dares  not  take  off  his 
sweater  for  a  week  lest  it  carry  away  his 
entire  face.  I  have  seen  men  with  deep 
sores  oh  their  shoulders  caused  by  noth 
ing  but  excessive  burning  in  the  sun. 
This,  too,  is  merely  amusing.  It  means 
quite  simply  that  Algernon  realizes  his 
inner  deficiencies  and  wants  to  make  up 
for  them  by  the  outward  seeming.  Be 
kind  to  him,  for  he  has  been  raised  a 
pet. 

The  tenderfoot  is  lovable — mysterious 
in  how  he  does  it — and  awfully  unex 
pected. 


1904] 


The  South  and  the  Negro 


745 


it  must  be  by  colleges  for  negroes. 
The  so-called  "  higher  education "  of 
the  negro  is  of  course  only  in  a  techni 
cal  sense  "higher"  than  that  form  of 
education  which  cultivates  in  young  men 
and  women  high  qualities  of  character 
and  adaptability  to  their  environment 
by  other  means  than  the  traditional 
studies  of  a  New  England  college.  Of 
course  much  of  the  ill-repute  into  which 
this  "higher  education"  has  fallen  in 
the  South  is  due  to  the  fact  that  too 
often  it  has  made  pretense  of  being 
what  it  is  not ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
not  only  has  this  pretense  been  magni 
fied,  but  the  ill-repute  has  been  magni 
fied  still  more.  The  tributes  to  the 
work  done  by  negro  colleges,  most  of 
them  established  by  Northerners,  which 
were  expressed  to  me  by  men  of  strong 
Southern  traditions,  were  too  numerous 
to  mention  in  detail.  One  physician, 
for  instance,  whose  practice  had  given 
him  a  rare  acquaintance  with  negro  life, 
told  me  that  a  negro  college  established 
by  a  Northern  religious  body  in  his 
town  had  made',  to  his  certain  knowledge, 
a  great  difference  in  the  intellectual 
status  of  the  negroes  in  the  region, 
even  down  to  so  elementary  a  matter  as 
reading  and  writing.  The  failures  of 
such  colleges  as  these  have  become  a 
matter  of  common  report — after  the 
manner  of  the  world  ;  not  so,  unfortu 
nately,  the  approval  they  have  elicited. 
No  one  that  I  ever  met  has,  at  any  rate, 
ascribed  the  failures  of  "  higher  educa 
tion  "  to  its  merits.  The  cure  for  its 
defects  is,  like  the  cure  for  any  defect  in 
education,  not  its  abolition  but  its  im 
provement. 

The  one  point  concerning  negro  edu 
cation  to  which  I  have  never  heard  ex 
pressed  any  dissent,  not  even  from  those 
whom  I  have  called  enemies  of  educa 
tion,  is  that  of  moral  and  religious  train 
ing.  If  the  old-time,  picturesque  and 
demoralizing  negro  emotionalism  is  pass 
ing  away  or  becoming  restrained,  it  is 
due  to  educational  influences.  Of  that 
I  could  here  add  instances  to  those  I 
have  heretofore  given.  There  can  be 
no  manner  of  doubt  that  what  the  great 
majority  of  negroes  need  in  this  particu 


lar  is  not  religious  impulse,  but  religious 
and  moral  education.  This  becomes 
very  evident  when  it  is  possible  to  read 
the  following  sentence,  published  in  a 
newspaper  over  a  negro  bishop's  name : 
"  But  through  His  death  and  resurrec 
tion  we  may  commit  sins  of  lying,  steal 
ing,  Sabbath-breaking,  getting  drunk, 
gambling,  whoring,  murdering,  and  every 
species  of  villainy,  and  then  come  to  God 
through  our  resurrected  Christ,  and 
enter  heaven  in  the  end."  This  old 
divorce  of  morality  from  religious  emo 
tion  the  efforts  of  missionary  societies 
and  church  schools  have  been  slowly 
annulling;  but  it  is  as  futile  to  leave 
such  moral  education  to  ecclesiastical 
organizations  in  the  case  of  the  negro  in 
the  South  as  in  the  case  of  the  white 
person  of  the  North.  This  problem  is 
as  little  distinctively  a  race  problem  in 
one  section  as  another. 

In  one  respect  it  is  simpler  in  the  pre 
vailingly  orthodox  South  than  elsewhere 
in  the  United  States.  Fortunately,  as  it 
was  pointed  out  to  me,  there  is  no  such 
opposition  to  the  explicit  introduction  of 
moral  and  religious  education  into  the 
public  schools  in  the  South  as.  there  is 
in  the  North.  The  fact  that  the  negroes 
in  the  South,  in  the  main,  constitute  a 
child  race  makes  categorical  moral  in 
struction  in  colored  public  schools  de 
fensible  there  as  it  would  not  be  else 
where.  In  this  particular,  too,  it  is  clear 
that  the  problem  of  negro  education  is 
less  a  negro  problem  than  an  educational 
problem. 

After  all,  therefore,  whether  as  a  prob 
lem  of  industrial  education,  or  of  com 
mon  school  education,  or  of  higher  edu 
cation,  or  of  religious  and  moral  educa 
tion,  the  educational  problem  of  the 
South  can  be  rescued  from  race  feeling. 
It  probably  is  true  that  race  feeling  in 
the  South  is  becoming  more  rather  than 
less  pronounced ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
strong  and  clear  eyed  men  of  the  South 
are  saying:  Within  the  bounds  which 
protect  the  integrity  of  our  race  we  shall 
let  feeling  govern ;  but  beyond  thosq 
bounds  we  shall  set  our  wits  to  work  at 
the  old  problems  of  government,  social 
order,  industry,  and  education, 


THE  MOUNTAINS' 

BY    STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  THE   FOREST,"   "  THE   BLAZED  TRAIL,"  "  THE   SILENT  PLACES,"  ETC, 


XII — The  Canon 


ONE  day  we  tied  our  horses  to 
three  bushes,  and  walked  on 
foot  two  hundred  yards.  Then 
we  looked  down. 

It  was  nearly  four  thousand  feet  down. 
Do  you  realize  how  far  that  is  ?  There 
was  a  river  meandering  through  olive- 
colored  forests.  It  was  so  distant  that 
it  was  light  green  and  as  narrow  as  a 
piece  of  tape.  Here  and  there  were 
rapids,  but  so  remote  that  we  could  not 
distinguish  the  motion  of  them,  only  the 
color.  The  white  resembled  tiny  dabs 
of  cotton  wool  stuck  on  the  tape.  It 
turned  and  twisted,  following  the  turns 
and  twists  of  the  canon.  Somehow  the 
level  at  the  bottom  resembled  less  forests 
and  meadows  than  a  heavy  and  sluggish 
fluid  like  molasses  flowing  between  the 
canon  walls.  It  emerged  from  the  bend 
of  a  sheer  cliff  ten  miles  to  eastward  ;  it 
disappeared  placidly  around  the  bend  of 
another  sheer  cliff  an  equal  distance  to 
the  westward. 

The  time  was  afternoon.  As  we 
watched,  the  shadow  of  the  canon  wall 
darkened  the  valley.  Whereupon  we 
looked  up. 

Now  the  upper  air,  of  which  we  were 
dwellers  for  the  moment,  was  peopled  by 
giants  and  clear  atmosphere  and  glitter 
ing  sunlight,  flashing  like  silver  and  steel 
and  precious  stones  from  the  granite 
domes,  peaks,  minarets,  and  palisades 
of  the  High  Sierras.  Solid  as  they  were 
in  reality,  in  the  crispness  of  this  moun 
tain  air,  under  the  tangible  blue  of  this 
mountain  sky,  they  seemed  to  poise  light 
as  so  many  balloons.  Some  of  them 
rose  sheer,  with  hardly  a  fissure  ;  some 
had  flung  across  their  shoulders  long 
trailing  pine  draperies,  fine  as  fur ;  others 
matched  mantles  of  the  whitest  white 
against  the  bluest  blue  of  the  sky. 

1  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 
746 


Towards  the  lower  country  were  more 
pines  rising  in  ridges,  like  the  fur  of  an 
animal  that  has  been  alarmed. 

We  dangled  our  feet  over  the  edge 
and  talked  about  it.  Wes  pointed  to 
the  upper  end  where  the  sluggish  lava- 
like  flow  of  the  canon-bed  first  came  into 
view. 

"  That's  where  we'll  camp,"  said  he. 

"  When  ?"  we  asked. 

"  When  we  get  there,"  he  answered. 

For  this  canon  lies  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountains.  Those  who  would  visit  it 
have  first  to  get  into  the  country — a 
matter  of  over  a  week.  Then  they  have 
their  choice  of  three  probabilities  of 
destruction. 

The  first  route  comprehends  two  final 
days  of  travel  at  an  altitude  of  about  ten 
thousand  feet,  where  the  snow  lies  in 
midsummer ;  where  there  is  no  feed,  no 
comfort,  and  the  way  is  strewn  with 
the  bones  of  horses.  This  is  known 
as  the  "Basin  Trail."  After  taking  it 
you  prefer  the  others — until  you  try 
them. 

The  finish  of  the  second  route  is  di 
rectly  over  the  summit  of  a  mountain. 
You  climb  two  thousand  feet  and  then 
drop  down  five.  The  ascent  is  heart 
breaking  but  safe.  The  descent  is  hair- 
rising  and  unsafe ;  no  profanity  can  do 
justice  to  it.  Out  of  a  pack-train  of 
thirty  mules,  nine  were  lost  in  the  course 
of  that  five  thousand  feet.  Legend  has 
it  that  once  many  years  ago  certain  pros 
pectors  took  in  a  Chinese  cook.  At  first 
the  Mongolian  bewailed  his  fate  loudly 
and  fluently,  but  later  settled  to  a  single 
terrified  moan  that  sounded  like  "  tu-ne- 
mah !  tu-ne-mah  1"  The  trail  was  there 
fore  named  the  "  Tu-ne-mah  Trail."  It 
is  said  that  "  tu-ne-mah "  is  the  very 
worst  single  vituperation  of  which  the 
Chinese  language  is  capable. 


The  Mountains 


747 


The  third  route  is  called  "  Hell's  Half 
Mile."  It  is  not  misnamed. 

Thus  like  paradise  the  canon  is  guard 
ed  ;  but  like  paradise  it  is  wondrous  in 
delight.  For  when  you  descend  you  find 
that  the  tape-wide  trickle  of  water  seen 
from  above  has  become  a  river  with  pro 
found  darkling  pools  and  placid  stretches 
and  swift  dashing  rapids  ;  that  the  dark 
green  sluggish  flow  in  the  canon-bed  has 
disintegrated  into  a  noble  forest  with 
great  pine-trees,  and  shaded  aisles,  and 
deep  dank  thickets,  and  brush  openings 
where  the  sun  is  warm  and  the  birds  are 
cheerful,  and  groves  of  cottonwoods 
where  all  day  long  softly,  like  snow,  the 
flakes  of  cotton  float  down  through  the 
air."  Moreover  there  are  meadows,  spaci 
ous  lawns,  opening  out,  closing  in,  wind 
ing  here  and  there  through  the  groves  in 
the  manner  of  spilled  naphtha,  actually 
waist  high  with  green  feed,  sown  with 
flowers  like  a  brocade.  Quaint  tributary 
little  brooks  babble  and  murmur  down 
through  these  trees,  down  through  these 
lawns.  A  blessed  warm  sun  hums  with 
the  joy  of  innumerable  bees.  To  right 
hand  and  to  left,  in  front  of  you  and 
behind,  rising  sheer,  forbidding,  impreg 
nable,  the  cliffs,  mountains,  and  ranges 
hem  you  in.  Down  the  river  ten  miles 
you  can  go ;  then  the  gorge  closes,  the 
river  grows  savage,  you  can  only  look 
down  the  tumbling  fierce  waters  and 
turn  back.  Up  the  river  five  miles  you 
can  go,  then  interpose  the  sheer  snow- 
clad  cliffs  of  the  Palisades,  and  them, 
rising  a  matter  of  fourteen  thousand  feet, 
you  may  not  cross.  You  are  shut  in 
your  paradise  as  completely  as  though 
surrounded  by  iron  bars. 

But,  too,  the  world  is  shut  out.  The 
paradise  is  yours.  In  it  are  trout  and 
deer  and  grouse  and  bear  and  lazy  happy 
days.  Your  horses  feed  to  the  fatness 
of  butter.  You  wander  at  will  in  the 
ample  though  definite  limits  of  your 
domain.  You  lie  on  your  back  and  ex 
amine  dispassionately,  with  an  interest 
entirely  detached,  the  huge  cliff-walls  of 
the  valley.  Days  slip  by.  Really,  it 
needs  at  least  an  angel  with  a  flaming 
sword  to  force  you  to  move  on. 

We  turned  away  from  our  view  and 
addressed  ourselves  to  the  task  of  find 
ing  out  just  when  we  were  going  to  get 


there.  The  first  day  we  bobbed  up  and 
over  innumerable  little  ridges  of  a  few 
hundred  feet  elevation,  crossed  several 
streams,  and  skirted  the  wide  bowl-like 
amphitheatre  of  a  basin.  The  second 
day  we  climbed  over  things  and  finally 
ended  in  a  small  hanging  park  named 
Alpine  Meadows,  at  an  elevation  of  eight 
thousand  five  hundred  feet.  There  we 
rested-over  a  day,  camped  under  a  single 
pine-tree,  with  the  quick-growing  moun 
tain  grasses  thick  about  us,  a  semicircle 
of  mountains  on  three  sides,  and  the 
plunge  into  the  canon  on  the  other.  As 
we  needed  meat,  we  spent  part  of  the 
day  on  finding  a  deer.  The  rest  of  the 
time  we  watched  idly  for  bear. 

Bears  are  great  travelers.  They  will 
often  go  twenty  miles  overnight,  appar 
ently  for  the  sheer  delight  of  being  on 
the  move.  Also  are  they  exceedingly 
loath  to  expend  unnecessary  energy  in 
getting  to  places,  and  they  hate  to  go 
down  steep  hills.  You  see,  their  fore 
legs  are  short.  Therefore  they  are  skilled 
in  the  choice  of  easy  routes  through  the 
mountains,  and  once  having  made  the 
choice  they  stick  to  it  until  through  cer 
tain  narrow  places  on  the  route  selected 
they  have  worn  a  trail  as  smooth  as 
a  garden-path.  The  old  prospectors 
used  occasionally  to  pick  out  the  horse- 
passes  by  trusting  in  general  to  the  bear 
migrations,  and  many  a  well-traveled 
route  of  to-day  is  superimposed  over  the 
way-through  picked  out  by  old  Bruin  long 
ago. 

Of  such  was  our  own  trail.  Therefore 
we  kept  our  rifles  at  hand  and  our  eyes 
open  for  a  straggler.  But  none  came, 
though  we  -baited  craftily  with  portions 
of  our  deer.  All  we  gained  was  a  rattle 
snake,  and  he  seemed  a  bit  out  of  place 
so  high  np  in  the  air. 

Mount  Tunemah  stood  over  against 
us,  still  twenty-two  hundred  feet  above 
our  elevation.  We  gazed  on  it  sadly,  for 
directly  by  its  summit,  and  for  five  hours 
beyond,  lay  our  trail,  and  evil  of  reputa 
tion  was  that  trail  beyond  all  others. 
The  horses,  as  we  bunched  them  in  pre 
paration  for  the  packing,  took  on  a  new 
interest,  for  it  was  on  the  cards  that  the 
unpacking  at  evening  would  find  some 
missing  trom  the  ranks. 

"  Lily's  a  goner,  sure,"  said  Wes,     "  I 


748 


The  Outlook 


[30  July 


don't  know  how  she's  got  this  far  except 
by  drunken  man's  luck.  She'll  never 
make  the  Tunemah." 

"  And  Tunemah  himself,"  pointed  out 
the  Tenderfoot,  naming  his  own  fool 
horse ;  "  I  see  where  I  start  in  to  walk." 

"  Sort  of  a  *  morituri  te  salutamus,'  " 
said  I. 

We  climbed  the  two  thousand  two  hun 
dred  feet,  leading  our  saddle-horses  to 
save  their  strength.  Every  twenty  feet 
we  rested,  breathing  heavily  of  the  rari- 
fied  air.  Then  at  the  top  of  the  world 
we  paused  on  the  brink  of  nothing  to 
tighten  cinches,  while  the  cold  wind 
swept  by  us,  the  snow  glittered  in  a 
sunlight  become  silvery  like  that  of  early 
April,  and  the  giant  peaks  of  the  High 
.Sierras  lifted  into  a  distance  inconceiv 
ably  remote,  as  .though  the  horizon  had 
been  set  back  for  their  accommodation. 

To  our  left  lay  a  windrow  of  snow  such 
as  you  will  see  drifted  into  a  sharp  crest 
across  a  corner  of  your  yard;  only 
this  windrow  was  twenty  feet  high  and 
packed  solid  by  the  sun,  the  wind,  and 
the  weight  of  its  age.  We  climbed  it  and 
looked  over  directly  into  the  eye  of  a 
round  Alpine  lake  seven  or  eight  hun 
dred  feet  below.  It  was  an  intense 
cobalt  blue,  a  color  to  be  seen  only  in 
these  glacial  bodies  of  water,  deep  and 
rich  as  the  mantle  of  a  merchant  of 
Tyre.  White  ice  floated  in  it.  The 
savage  fierce  granite  needles  and  knife- 
edges  of  the  mountain  crest  hemmed  it 
about. 

But  this  was  temporizing,  and  we  knew 
it.  The  first  drop  of  the  trail  was  so 
steep  that  we  could  flip  a  pebble  to  the 
first  level  of  it,  and  so  rough  in  its  water- 
and-snow-gouged  knuckles  of  rocks  that 
it  seemed  that  at  the  first  step  a 
horse  must  necessarily  fall  end  over  end. 
We  made  it  successfully,  however,  and 
breathed  deep.  Even  Lily,  by  a  micacle 
of  hicky  scrambling,  did  not  even  stum 
ble. 

"  Now  she's  easy  for  a  little  ways," 
said  Wes,  "  then  we'll  get  busy." 

When  we  "got  busy"  we  took  our 
guns  in  our  hands  to  preserve  them  from 
a  fall,  and  started  in.  Two  more  miracles 
saved  Dinkey  at  two  more  places.  We 
spent  an  hour  at  one  spot,  and  finely 
built  a  new  trail  around  it.  Six  times  a 


minute  we  held  our  breaths  and  stood  on 
tiptoe  with  anxiety,  powerless  to  help, 
while  the  horse  did  his  best.  At  the 
especially  bad  places  we  checked  them 
off  one  after  another,  congratulating  our 
selves  on  so  much  saved  as  each  came 
across  without  accident.  When  there 
were  no  bad  places,  the  trail  was  so 
extraordinarily  steep  that  we  ahead  were 
in  constant  dread  of  a  horse's  falling  on 
us  from  behind,  and  our  legs  did  become 
wearied  to  incipient  paralysis  by  the 
constant  stiff  checking  of  the  descent 
Moreover  every  second  or  so  one  of  the 
big  loose  stones  with  which  the  trail  was 
cumbered  would  be  disloged  and  come 
bouncing  down  among  us.  We  dodged 
and  swore ;  the  horses  kicked ;  we  all 
feared  for  the  integrity  of  our  legs.  The 
day  was  full  of  an  intense  nervous  strain, 
an  entire  absorption  in  the  precise  pres 
ent.  We  promptly  forgot  a  difficulty  as 
soon  as  we  were  by  it ;  we  had  not  time 
to  think  of  those  still  ahead.  All  outside 
the  insistence  of  the  moment  was  blurred 
an  unimportant,  like  a  specialized  focus, 
so  I  cannot  tell  you  much  about  the 
scenery.  The  only  outside  impression 
we  received  was  that  the  canon  floor  was 
slowly  rising  to  meet  us. 

Then  strangely  enough,  as  it  seemed, 
we  stepped  off  to  level  ground. 

Our  watches  said  half-past  three.  We 
had  made  five  miles  in  a  little  under 
seven  hours. 

Remained  only  the  crossing  of  the 
river.  This  was  no  mean  task,  but  we 
accomplished  it  lightly,  searching  out  a 
ford.  There  were  high  grasses,  and  on 
the  other  side  of  them  a  grove  of  very 
tall  cottonwoods,  clean  as  a  park.  First 
of  all  we  cooked  things  ;  then  we  spread 
things ;  then  we  lay  on  our  backs  and 
smoked  things,  our  hands  clasped  back 
of  our  heads.  We  cocked  ironical  eyes 
at  the  sheer  cliff  of  old  Mount  Tunemah, 
very  much  as  a  man  would  cock  his  eye 
at  a  tiger  in  a  cage. 

Already  the  meat-hawks,  the  fluffy 
Canada  jays,  had  found  us  out,  and  were 
prepared  to  swoop  down  boldly  on  what 
ever  offered  to  their  predatory  skill.  We 
had  nothing  for  them  yet — there  were  no 
remains  of  the  lunch — but  the  fire-irons 
were  out,  and  ribs  of  venison  were  roast 
ing  slowly  over  the  coals  in  preparation 


1904] 


Rangoon 


749 


for  the  evening  meal.  Directly  opposite, 
visible  through  the  lattice  of  the  trees, 
were  two  huge  mountain  peaks,  part  of 
the  wall  that  shut  us  in,  over  against  us 
in  a  height  we  had  not  dared  ascribe  to 
the  sky  itself.  By  and  by  the  shadow 
of  these  mountains  rose  on  the  westerly 
wall.  It  crept  up  at  first  slowly,  extin 
guishing  color ;  afterwards  more  rapidly 
as  the  sun  approached  the  horizon.  The 
sunlight  disappeared.  A  moment's  gray 
intervened,  and  then  the  wonderful 
golden  afterglow  laid  on  the  peaks  its 
enchantment.  Little  by  little  that  too 
faded,  until  at  last,  far  away,  through  a 
rift  in  the  ranks  of  the  giants,  but  one 
remained  gilded  by  the  glory  of  a  dream 
that  continued  with  it  after  the  others. 
Heretofore  it  had  seemed  to  us  an  insig 
nificant  peak,  apparently  overtopped  by 
many,  but  by  this  token  we  knew  it  to  be 
the  highest  of  them  all. 

Then  ensued  another  pause,  as  though 
to  give  the  invisible  scene-shifter  time 
to  accomplish  his  work,  followed  by  a 
shower  of  evening  coolness,  that  seemed 
to  sift  through  the  trees  like  a  soft  and 
gentle  rain.  We  ate  again  by  the  flicker 
of  the  fire,  dabbing  a  trifle  uncertainly 


at  the  food,  wondering  at  the  distant 
mountain  on  which  the  Day  had  made 
its  final  stand,  shrinking  a  little  before 
the  stealthy  dark  that  flowed  down  the 
canon  in  the  manner  of  a  heavy  smoke. 

In  the  notch  between  the  two  huge 
mountains  blazed  a  star — accurately  in 
the  notch,  like  the  front  sight  of  a  rifle 
sighted  into  the  marvelous  depths  of 
space.  Then  the  moon  rose. 

First  we  knew  of  it  when  it  touched 
the  crest  of  our  two  mountains.  The 
night  has  strange  effects  on  the  hills.  A 
moment  before  they  had  menaced  black 
and  sullen  against  the  sky,  but  at  the 
touch  of  the  moon  their  very  substance 
seemed  to  dissolve,  leaving  in  the  upper 
atmosphere  the  airiest,  most  nebulous, 
fragile,  ghostly  simulacrums  of  them 
selves  you  could  imagine  in  the  realms 
of  fairy-land.  They  seemed'  actually  to 
float,  to  poise  like  cloud-shapes  about  to 
dissolve.  And  against  them  were  cast 
the  inky  silhouettes  of  three  fir-trees  in 
the  shadow  near  at  hand. 

Down  over  the  stones  rolled  the  river, 
crying  out  to  us  with  the  voices  of  old 
accustomed  friends  in  another  wilder 
ness.  The  winds  rustled. 


Rangoon 

By  Elizabeth  Washburn 


THE  night  swooned  upon  the  sea. 
There    were    stars    above — fat 
dabs  of  yellow  butter  that  melted 
greasily  across  a  field  of  black.     Below 
the  ship  Sirsa  panted  heavily  and  lunged 
at  the   long   levels  of  languorous  sea. 
A  little  wheel  perched  on  her  rail  behind 
sang  a  song  and  watched  the  log- rope 
slice  the  sea .  as  smoothly  as  a  sharp 
knife  cutting  cheese. 

The  boat  was  empty,  old,  and  two 
battered  lanterns  hanging  on  the  deck 
held  steady  orange  flames  that  never 
wavered.  The  deck  beyond  these  lights 
was  of  a  shining  blackness.  The  Sirsa 
hailed  from  Mogi  in  Japan  and  was 
making  a  tramp's  trip  to  Burma  and 
Chittagong.  The  northeast  monsoon 
had  met  her  coming  down  the  China 
coast,  and  the  China  Sea  had  leapt  with 
playful  glee  upon  her  decks,  had  poked 


her  roughly  in  the  ribs  and  had  twisted 
sharply  each  separate  beam  in  her 
ancient  hulk. 

Perforce  she  entered  Singapore  with 
a  wheeze  and  a  cough  and  a  tremulous 
unsteady  beating  of  the  heart.  There 
she  drew  breath  and  wiped  the  sweat  of 
exhaustion  from  her  wide  white  face, 
coaled  dutifully  and  turned  a  patient 
course  up  the  smiling  meadow  lands  of 
the  wide  Indian  seas.  Slowly  she  lum 
bered  through  the  shining  waters,  mur 
muring  plaintively,  with  sighs  and  little 
catches  of  the  breath.  Old  she  was  in 
knowledge,  old  in  memories  of  the  sea, 
and  age  lay  heavily  in  every  creaking 
timber  of  her  frame  and  on  the  well 
worn  woodwork  of  her  gloomy  cabins. 

Silence  spread  to  every  corner  of  the 
boat.  Black  men  in  muslins  stepped 
like  cats  and  polished  ceaselessly  the 


750 


The  Outlook 


[30  July 


ancient  brasses  of  the  low  saloon.  Once 
at  twilight  a  shrill  laugh  rang  from  the 
deep  shelter  of  the  after-deck — and  the 
Sirsa  whispered  mystery,  and  caution. 
Twice  at  midnight  a  vagrant  wharf  cat 
shipped  at  Singapore  shrieked  through 
the  empty  cabins.  Followed  on  the 
third  a  swish  of  draperies,  the  swift  pat 
ter  of  naked  feet,  a  strangled  groan,  and 
while  the  boat  held  a  breath  of  horror  — 
a  clear  splash  at  her  bows. 

The  lascars  fell  upon  their  knees  at 
sunset,  faced  the  blatant  brassy  horror 
sinking  in  the  blue  and  moved  mute 
lips  to  Mecca.  Shrilly,  mournfully,  their 
voices  broke  in  chorus  over  the  empty 
sea,  while  a  much  patched  heavy  sail 
bellied  into  place,  bloused  for  a  moment 
fitfully— then  fell  limp. 

On  the  black  night  there  rose  out  of 
the  sea  a  light  that  bobbed,  sank  and 
circled  again.  It  spoke  of  other  life — a 
link  perhaps,  to  jostling  crowds  and 
steaming  streets  and  honest  noises  of 
the  day.  The  pulses  in  the  Sirsa  quick 
ened,  and  the  aimless  babble  falling 
from  her  lips  of  a  sudden  ceased.  The 
nameless  shadows  slinking  on  her  decks 
crept  once  more  to  the  unknown  chasms 
of  her  gloomy  hull. 

There  was  movement,  a  brisk  patter 
ing  of  feet  throughout  the  boat.  The 
light  hovering  about  the  night  drew 
nearer,  showed  at  last  the  anchored  out 
lines  of  the  pilot  boat  that  marked  the 
unseen  entrance  of  the  wide-lipped  leer 
ing  Irrawaddy  to  the  sea. 

The  dawn  came  heralding  with  pen 
nants  of  flowering  peach.  The  ingoing 
tide  rushing  past  the  Sirsa  ran  up  her 
helm  in  ripples  of  delicate  rose.  The 
early  morning  glistened  with  dews,  with 
gossamer  veils  of  shimmering  silver  that 
spread  above  the  land  and  sea,  and 
span  a  trembling  web  across  the  upturned 
ugly  face  of  Rangoon  resting  on  the 
river  bank. 

Slow  boats  slipped  softly  up  the 
stream  and  others  still  slept  on  with 
quiet  gurglings  at  their  anchors.  A 
craning  swan-like  craft  with  high  carved 
beak  and  outstretched  wings  swept 
swiftly  out  to  sea  with  rows  of  naked 
brownmen  bending  sharply  at  the  oars. 
Sampans  rocked  on  the  rising  tide  and 
a  gentle  stir  and  stretching  from  sleep 


ran  up  and  down  the  crimson  running 
river. 

A  bird  gushed  suddenly  a  wonderous 
liquid  song  from  the  low  mist-covered 
shores.  Following  came  a  gentle  breeze 
that  rent  the  fine  silver  tis.sues,  rippled 
the  stream  and  showed  very  naked  and 
ugly  a  low  flat-lying  town.  With  the 
breath  came  a  faint  fine  echo  of  bells — 
languorous,  pausing  tones  of  silver. 
Then  emerging  from  the  mists  and 
standing  .high  above  the  level  of  brown 
earth  gleamed  a  bell  shaped  divinely 
pointing  thing  of  gold,  that  quivered 
dizzily  for  a  moment  then  dimmed  behind 
a  bank  of  mist. 

Next  the  sun  leapt  into  the  day  and 
struck  upon  the  senses  like  the  sudden 
crash  of  metal  cymbals.  The  mists 
curled  instantly  and  vanished,  the  shad 
ows  withered  under  foot  and  a  bare 
white  light  trimmed  like  a  knife  the 
ugly  outlines  of  Rangoon. 

Mind  and  body  cry  aloud  for  shelter 
in  the  town.  The  sun  hangs  so  low — 
perches  in  the  very  branches  of  the 
dust-streaked  trees.  It  is  appalling, 
and  the  soul  whimpers  at  the  nearness, 
the  bald  intrusion. 

Huge  ravens,  hoarse  and  sooty,  tumble 
from  the  low-browed  roofs  and  straddle 
in  the  roads.  The  hot  air  never  liffs, 
and  registers  with  terrible  distinctness 
each  separate  sound.  Mad  native  ponies 
tear  over  the  hard  roads  with  ceaseless 
bump  and  rattle  of  their  gharry-wheels. 

Slow,  incessant  pulleys  lift  cargoes  in 
mid-air  and  drop  them  with  an  aching 
grind  and  grate  of  chains  into  the  yawn 
ing  bodies  of  ships. 

Murmurs  swell  from  far  and  near. 
The  broken  chant  of  laden  natives  pad 
ding  to  the  waiting  row  of  boats.  The 
distant  thud  of  falling  timber  from  the 
teak  yards  up  the  river.  The  tear  and 
rip  of  saws.  The  thud  and  jar  of  ele 
phants  thundering  about  the  yards  and 
the  drop  of  mammoth  logs  of  even 
piles. 

Again  are  other  tones.  The  bubbling 
speech  of  oil-smeared  black-backed 
Tamils  swarming  down  the  roads.  The 
shrill  laughter  of  flower  crowned  Burman 
girls.  The  tread  and  tramp  and  shuffle 
of  khakied  English  soldiers.  The  cries 
of  venders,  the  pipings,  the  mutterings, 


THE 

MOUNTAINS 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD 
WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  FOREST 

THE  BLAZED  TRAIL 

THE  SILENT  PLACES   Etc. 

WITH  PICTURES  BY  FERNAND  LUNGREN 

XIII. — Trout,  Buckskin,  and  Prospectors 


AS    I    have    said,    a    river    flows 
through  the  canon.     It  is  a  very 
good  river,  with  some  riffles  that 
can   be   waded   down   to   the   edges    of 
black  pools  or   white  chutes  of  water ; 
with  appropriate  big  trees  fallen  slant 
wise   into   it   to  form  deep  holes  ;   and 
with  hurrying  smooth  stretches  of  some 
breadth.     In  all  of  these  various  places 
are  rainbow  trout. 

There  is  no  use  fishing  until  late 
afternoon.  The  clear  sun  of  the  high 
altitudes  searches  out  mercilessly  the 
bottom  of  the  stream,  throwing  its  mini 
ature  boulders,  mountains,  and  valleys 
as  plainly  into  relief  as  the  buttes  of 
Arizona  at  noon.  Then  the  trout  quite 
refuse.  Here  and  there,  if  you  walk  far 
enough  and  climb  hard  enough  over  all 
sorts  of  obstructions,  you  may  discover 
a  few  spots  shaded  by  big  trees  or  rocks 
where  you  can  pick  up  a  half-dozen  fish; 
but  it  is  slow  work.  When,  however,  the 
shadow  of  the  two  huge  mountains  feels 
its  way  across  the  stream,  then,  as  though 
a  signal  had  been  given,  the  trout  begin 
to  rise.  t  For  an  hour  and  a  half  there 
is  noble  sport  indeed. 

1  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


The  stream  fairly  swarmed  with  them, 
but  of  course  some  places  were  better 
than  others.  Near  the  upper  reaches 
the  water  boiled  like  seltzer  around  the 
base  of  a  tremendous  tree.  There  the 
pool  was  at  least  ten  feet  deep  and  shot 
with  bubbles  throughout  the  whole  of 
its  depth,  but  it  was  full  of  fish.  They 
rose  eagerly  to  your  gyrating  fly — and 
took  it  away  with  them  down  to  subaque 
ous  chambers  and  passages  among  the 
roots  of  that  tree.  After  which  you 
broke  your  leader.  Royal  Coachman 
was  the  best  lure,  and  therefore  valu 
able  exceedingly  were  Royal  Coachmen. 
Whenever  we  lost  one  we  lifted  up  our 
voices  in  lament,  and  went  away  from 
there,  calling  to  mind  that  there  were 
other  pools,  many  other  pools,  free  of 
obstruction  and  with  fish  in  them.  Yet, 
such  is  the  perversity  of  fishermen,  we 
were  back  losing  more  Royal  Coachmen 
the  very  next  day.  In  all,  I  managed 
to  disengage  just  three  rather  small  trout 
from  that  pool,  and  in  return  decorated 
their  ancestral  halls  with  festoons  of 
leaders  and  the  brilliance  of  many  flies. 

Now  this  was  foolishness.  All  you 
had  to  do  was  to  walk  through  a  grove 

815     . 


;  TOWARDS   EVENING   HE   SAUNTERED   IN 


The   Mountains 


817 


of  cottonwoods,  over  a  brook,  through 
another  grove  of  pines,  down  a  sloping 
meadow  to  where  one  of  the  gigantic 
pine-trees  had  obligingly  spanned  the 
current.  You  crossed  that,  traversed 
another  meadow, broke  through  a  thicket, 
slid  down  a  steep  grassy  bank,  and  there 
you  were.  A  great  many  years  before, 
a  pine-tree  had  fallen  across  the  current. 
Now  its  whitened  skeleton  lay  there, 
opposing  a  barrier  for  about  twenty-five 
feet  out  into  the  stream.  Most  of  the 
water  turned  aside,  of  course,  and  boiled 
frantically  around  the  end  as  though 
trying  to  catch  up  with  the  rest  of  the 
stream  which  had  gone  on  without  it, 
but  some  of  it  dived  down  under  and 
came  up  on  the  other  side.  There,  as 
though  bewildered,  it  paused  in  an  uneasy 
pool.  Its  constant  action  had  excavated 
a  very  deep  hole,  the  de'bris  of  which 
had  formed  a  bar  immediately  below. 
You  waded  out  on  the  bar  and  cast 
along  the  length  of  the  pine  skeleton 
over  the  pool. 

If  you  were  methodical,  you  first 
shortened  your  line,  and  began  near  the 
bank,  gradually  working  out  until  you 
were  casting  forty-five  feet  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  fast  current.  I  know  of 
nothing  pleasanter  for  you  to  do.  You 
see,  the  evening  shadow  was  across  the 
river,  and  a  beautiful  grass  slope  at  your 
back.  Over  the  way  was  a  grove  of  trees 
whose  birds  were  very  busy  because  it 
was  near  their  sunset,  while  towering 
over  them  were  mountains,  quite  peace 
ful  by  way  of  contrast  because  their  sun 
set  was  still  far  distant.  The  river  was 
in  a  great  hurry,  and  was  talking  to  itself 
like  a  man  who  has  been  detained  and 
is  now  at  last  making  up  time  to  his 
important  engagement.  And  from  the 
deep  black  shadow  beneath  the  pine  skel 
eton  occasionally  flashed  white  bodies 
that  made  concentric  circles  where  they 
broke  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  which 
fought  you  to  a  finish  in  the  glory  of 
battle.  The  casting  was  against  the  cur 
rent,  so  your  flies  could  rest  but  the 
briefest  possible  moment  on  the  surface 
of  the  stream.  That  moment  was  enough. 
Day  after  day  you  could  catch  your 
required  number  from  an  apparently 
inexhaustible  supply. 

I    might    inform    you   further  of  the 


gorge  downstream,  where  you  lie  flat  on 
your  stomach  ten  feet  above  the  river, 
and  with  one  hand  cautiously  extended 
over  the  edge  cast  accurately  into  the 
angle  of  the  cliff.  Then  when  you  get 
your  strike,  you  tow  him  downstream, 
clamber  precariously  to  the  water's  level 
— still  playing  your  fish — and  there  land 
him — if  he  has  accommodatingly  stayed 
hooked.  A  three-pound  fish  will  make 
you  a  lot  of  tribulation  at  this  game. 

We  lived  on  fish  and  venison,  and 
had  all  we  wanted.  The  bear-trails  were 
plenty  enough,  and  the  signs  were  com 
paratively  fresh,  but  at  the  time  of  our 
visit  the  animals  themselves  had  gone 
Over  the  mountains  on  some  sort  of  a 
picnic.  Grouse,  too,  were  numerous  in 
the  popple  thickets,  and  flushed  much 
like  our  ruffed  grouse  of  the  East.  They 
afforded  first-rate  wing-shooting  for  Sure- 
Pop,  the  little  shot-gun. 

But  these  things  occupied,  after  all, 
only  a  small  part  of  every  day.  We 
had  loads  of  time  left.  Of  course  we 
explored  the  valley  up  and  down.  That 
occupied  two  days.  After  that  we  be 
came  lazy.  One  always  does  in  a  perma 
nent  camp.  So  did  the  horses.  Active — 
or  rather  restless — interest  in  life  seemed 
to  die  away.  Neither  we  nor  they  had 
to  rustle  hard  for  food.  They  became 
fastidious  in  their  choice,  and  at  all 
times  of  day  could  be  seen  sauntering  in 
Indian  file  from  one  part  of  the  meadow 
to  the  other  for  the  sole  purpose,  appar 
ently,  of  cropping  a  half-dozen  indifferent 
mouthfuls.  The  rest  of  the  time  they 
roosted  under  trees,  one  hind  leg  relaxed, 
their  eyes  half  closed,  their  ears  wab 
bling,  the  pictures  of  imbecile  content. 
We  were  very  much  the  same. 

Of  course  we  had  our  outbursts  of 
virtue.  While  under  their  influence  we 
undertook  vast  works.  But  after  their 
influence  had  died  out,  we  found  our 
selves  with  said  vast  works  on  our 
hands,  arid  so  came  to  cursing  ourselves 
and  our  fool  spasms  of  industry. 

For  instance,  Wes  and  I  decided  to 
make  buckskin  from  the  hide  of  the 
latest  deer.  We  did  not  need  the  buck 
skin — we  already  had  two  in  the  pack. 
Our  ordinary  procedure  would  have 
been  to  dry  the  hide  for  future  treat 
ment  by  a  Mexican,  at  a  dollar  a  hide, 


818 


The  Outlook 


when  we  should  have  returned  home. 
But,  as  I  said,  we  were  afflicted  by  spo 
radic  activity,  and  wanted  to  do  some 
thing. 

We  began  with  great  ingenuity  by 
constructing  a  graining-tool  out  of  a 
table-knife.  We  bound  it  with  rawhide, 
and  incased  it  with  wood,  and  wrapped 
it  with  cloth,  and  filed  its  edge  square 
across,  as  is  proper.  After  this  we  hunted 
out  a  very  smooth,  barkless  log,  laid  the 
hide  across  it,  straddled  it,  and  began 
graining. 

Graining  is  a  delightful  process.  You 
grasp  the  tool  by  either  end,  hold  the 
square  edge  at  a  certain  angle,  and  push 
away  from  you  mightily.  A  half-dozen 
pushes  will  remove  a  little  patch  of  hair; 
twice  as  many  more  will  scrape  away 
half  as  much  of  the  seal-brown  grain, 
exposing  the  white  of  the  hide.  Then, 
if  you  want  to,  you  can  stop  and  estab 
lish  in  your  mind  a  definite  proportion 
between  the  amount  thus  exposed,  the 
area  remaining  unexposed,  and  the  mus 
cular  fatigue  of  these  dozen  and  a 
half  of  mighty  pushes.  The  proportion 
will  be  wrong.  You  have  left  out  of 
account  the  fact  that  you  are  going  to 
get  almighty  sick  of  the  job ;  that  your 
arms  and  upper  back  are  going  to  ache 
shrewdly  before  you  are  done ;  and  that 
as  you  go  on  it  is  going  to  be  increas 
ingly  difficult  to  hold  down  the  edges 
firmly  enough  to  offer  the  required  re 
sistance  to  your  knife.  Besides — if  you 
get  careless — you'll  scrape  too  hard ; 
hence  little  holes  in  the  completed  buck 
skin.  Also — if  you  get  careless — you 
will  probably  leave  the  finest,  tiniest 
shreds  of  grain,  and  each  of  them  means 
a  hard,,  transparent  spot  in  the  product. 
Furthermore,  once  having  started  in  on 
the  job,  you  are  like  the  little  boy  who 
caught  the  trolley  :  you  cannot  let  go. 
It  must  be  finished  immediately,  all  at 
one  heat,  before  the  hide  stiffens. 

Be  it  understood,  your  first  enthusiasm 
has  evaporated,  and  you  are  thinking  of 
fifty  pleasant  things  you  might  just  as 
well  be  doing. 

Next  you  revel  in  grease — lard  oil,  if 
you  have  it;  if  not,  then  lard,  or  the 
product  of  boiled  brains.  This  you  must 
'rub  into  the  skin.  You  rub  it  in  until 
you  suspect  that  your  finger-nails  have 


worn  away,  and  you  glisten  to  the  elbows 
until  you  look  like  an  Eskimo  cutting 
blubber. 

By  the  merciful  arrangement  of  those 
who  invented  buckskin,  this  entitles  you 
to  a  rest.  You  take  it — for  several  days 
— until  your  conscience  seizes  you  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck. 

Then  you  transport  gingerly  that  slip 
pery,  clammy,  soggy,  snaky,  cold  bundle 
of  greasy  horror  to  the  bank  of  the  creek, 
and  there  for  endless  hours  you  wash  it. 
The  grease  is  more  reluctant  to  enter 
the  stream  than  you  are  in  the  early 
morning.  Your  hands  turn  purple.  The 
others  go  by  on  their  way  to  the  trout- 
pools,  but  you  are  chained  to  the  stake. 

By  and  by  you  straighten  your  back 
with  creaks,  and  walk  home  like  a  stiff 
old  man,  carrying  your  hide  rid  of  all 
superfluous  oil.  Then,  if  you  are  just 
learning  how,  your  instructor  examines 
the  result. 

"  That's  all  right,"  says  he,  cheerfully. 
"Now,  when  it  dries, it  will  be  buckskin." 

That  encourages  you.  It  need  not. 
For  during  the  process  of  drying  it  must 
be  your  pastime  constantly  to  pull  and 
stretch  at  every  square  inch  of  that 
boundless  skin  in  order  to  loosen  all  the 
fibers.  Otherwise  it  would  dry  as  stiff 
as  whalebone.  Now,  there  is  nothing  on 
earth  that  seems  to  dry  slower  than 
buckskin.  You  wear  your  fingers  down 
to  the  first  joints,  and,  wishing  to  preserve 
the  remainder  for  future  use,  you  carry 
the  hide  to  your  instructor. 

"Just  beginning  to  dry  nicely,"  says  he. 

You  go  back  and  do  it  some  more, 
putting  the  entire  strength  of  your  body, 
soul,  and  religious  convictions  into  the 
stretching  of  that  buckskin.  It  looks 
as  white  as  paper,  and  feels  as  soft  and 
warm  as  the  turf  on  a  southern  slope. 
Nevertheless  your  tyrant  declares  it  will 
not  do. 

"  It  looks  dry  and  it  feels  dry,"  says 
he,  "but  it  isn't  dry.  Go  to  it !" 

But  at  this  point  your  outraged  soul 
arches  its  back  and  bucks.  You  sneak 
off  and  roll  up  that  piece  of  buckskin, 
and  thrust  it  into  the  alforja.  You  know 
it  is  dry.  Then  with  a  deep  sigh  of 
relief  you  come  out  of  prison  into  the 
clear,  sane,  lazy  atmosphere  of  the  camp. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  there 


STEEPER   THAN    STRAIGHT-UP-AND-DOWN 


820 


The  Outlook 


[6  August 


is  any  one  chump  enough  to  do  that  for 
a  dollar  a  hide  ?"  you  inquire. 

"  Sure,"  say  they. 

"  Well,  the  Fool  Killer  is  certainly 
behind  on  his  dates,"  you  conclude. 

About  a  week  later  one  of  your  com 
panions  drags  out  of  the  alforja  some 
thing  crumpled  that  resembles  in  general 
appearance  and  texture  a  rusted  five- 
gallon  coal-oil  can  that  has  been  in  a 
wreck.  It  is  only  imperceptibly  less 
stiff  and  angular  and  cast-iron  than  raw 
hide. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  the  discoverer  in- 
.quires. 

Then  quietly  you  go  out  and  sit  on 
a  high  place  before  recognition  brings 
inevitable — and  sickening — chaff.  For 
you  know  it  at  a  glance.  It  is  your 
buckskin. 

Along  about  the  middle  of  that  cen 
tury  an  old  prospector  with  four  burros 
descended  the  Basin  Trail  and  went  into 
camp  just  below  us.  Towards  evening 
he  sauntered  in. 

I  sincerely  wish  I  could  sketch  this 
man  for  you  just  as  he  came  down 
through  the  fire-lit  trees.  He  was  about 
six  feet  tall,  very  leanly  built,  with  a 
weather-beaten  face  of  mahogany  on 
which  were  superimposed  a  sweeping 
mustache  and  beetling  eyebrows.  These 
had  originally  been  brown,  but  the  sun 
had  bleached  them  almost  white,  in  re 
markable  contrast  to  his  complexion. 
Eyes  keen  as  sunlight  twinkled  far  down 
beneath  the  shadows  of  the  brows  and 
a  floppy  old  sombrero  hat.  The  usual 
flannel  shirt,  waistcoat,  mountain-boots, 
and  six-shooter  completed  the  outfit. 
He  might  have  been  forty,  but  was  prob 
ably  nearer  sixty,  years  of  age. 

"  Howdy,  boys,"  said  he,  and  dropped 
to  the  fireside,  Where  he  promptly  an 
nexed  a  coal  for  his  pipe. 

We  all  greeted  him,  but  gradually  the 
talk  fell  to  him  and  Wes.  It  was  com 
monplace  talk  enough  from  one  point  of 
view  ;  taken  in  essence  it  was  merely 
like  the  inquiry  and  answer  of  the  civil 
ized  man  as  to  another's  itinerary — 
"  Did  you  visit  Florence  ?  Berlin  ?  St. 
Petersburg?" — and  then  the  comparing 
of  impressions.  Only  here  again  that 
old  familiar  magic  of  unfamiliar  names 


threw  its  glamour  over  the  terse  sen 
tences. 

"Over  beyond  the  Piute  Monument," 
the  old  prospector  explained,  "  down 
through  the  Inyo  Range,  a  leetle  north 
of  Death  Valley—" 

"  Back  in  seventy-eight  when  I  was 
up  in  Bay  Horse  Canon  over  by  Lost 
River—" 

"Was  you  ever  over  in  th'  Panamit 
Mountains  ? — North  of  th'  Telescope 
Range  ?"— 

That  was  all  there  was  to  it,  with  long 
pauses  for  drawing  at  the  pipes.  Yet 
somehow  in  the  aggregate  that  catalogue 
of  names  gradually  established  in  the 
minds  of  us  two  who  listened  an  impres 
sion  of  long  years,  of  wide  wilderness, 
of  wandering  far  over  the  face  of  the 
earth.  The  old  man  had  wintered  here, 
summered  a  thousand  miles  away,  made 
his  strike  at  one  end  of  the  world,  lost 
it  somehow,  and  cheerfully  tried  for  a 
repetition  of  his  luck  at  the  other.  I  do 
not  believe  the  possibility  of  wealth, 
though  always  of  course  in  the  back 
ground,  was  ever  near  enough  his  hope 
to  be  considered  a  motive  for  action. 
Rather  was  it  a  dream,  remote,  some 
thing  to  be  gained  to-morrow,  but  never 
to-day,  like  the  mediaeval  Christian's 
idea  of  heaven.  His  interest  was  in 
the  search.  For  that  one  could  see  in 
him  a  real  enthusiasm.  He  had  his 
smattering  of  theory,  his  very  real  em 
pirical  knowledge,  and  his  superstitions, 
like  all  prospectors.  So  long  as  he  could 
keep  in  grub,  own  a  little  train  of  bur 
ros,  and  lead  the  life  he  loved,  he  was 
happy. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  chief  elements  of 
this  remarkable  interest  in  the  game 
rather  than  the  prizes  of  it  was  his 
desire  to  vindicate  his  guesses,  or  his 
conclusions.  He  liked  to  predict  to 
himself  the  outcome  of  his  solitary  opera 
tions,  and  then  to  prove  that  prediction 
through  laborious  days.  His  life  was  a 
gigantic  game  of  solitaire.  In  fact,  he 
mentioned  a  dozen  of  his  claims  many 
years  apart  which  he  had  developed  to 
a  certain  point — "  so  I  could  see  what 
they  was  " — and  then  abandoned  in 
favor  of  fresher  discoveries.  He  cher 
ished  the  illusion  that  these  were  prop 
erties  to  whose  completion  some  day  he 


1904] 


The   Mountains 


821 


would  return.  But  we  knew  better  ;  he 
had  carried  them  to  the  point  where  the 
result  was  no  longer  in  doubt,  and  then, 
like  one  who  has  no  interest  in  playing 
on  in  an  evidently  prescribed  order,  had 
laid  his  cards  on  the  table  to  begin  a 
new  game. 

This  man  was  skilled  in  his  profes 
sion  ;  he  had  pursued  it  for  thirty-odd 
years ;  he  was  frugal  and  industrious  ; 
undoubtedly  of  his  long  series  of  dis 
coveries  a  fair  percentage  were  valuable 
and  are  producing-properties  to-day. 
Yet  he  confessed  his  bank  balance  to  be 
less  than  five  hundred  dollars.  Why 
was  this  ?  Simply  and  solely  because 
he  did  not  care.  At  heart  it  was  entirely 
immaterial  to  him  whether  he  ever  owned 
a  dollar  above  his  expenses.  When  he 
sold  his  claims  he  let  them  go  easily, 
loth  to  bother  himself  with  business 
details,  eager  to  get  away  from  the  fuss 
and  nuisance.  The  few  hundred  dollars 
he  received  he  probably  sunk  in  unpro 
ductive  mining  work,  or  was  fleeced  out 
of  in  the  towns.  Then  joyfully  he  turned 
back  to  his  beloved  mountains  and  the 
life  of  his  slow,  deep  delight  and  his 
pecking  away  before  the  open  doors  of 
fortune.  By  and  by  he  would  build  him 
self  a  little  cabin  down  in  the  lower  pine 
mountains,  where  he  would  grow  a  white 
beard,  putter  with  occult  wilderness 
crafts,  and  smoke  long  contemplative 
hours  in  the  sun  before  his  door.  For 
tourists  he  would  braid  rawhide  reins 
and  quirts,  or  make  buckskin.  The  jays 
and  woodpeckers  and  Douglas  squirrels 
would  become  fond  of  him.  So  he  would 
be  gathered  to  his  fathers,  a  gentle  old 
man  whose  life  had  been  spent  harm 
lessly  in  the  open.  He  had  had  his  ideal 
to  which  blindly  he  reached ;  he  had  in 
his  indirect  way  contributed  the  fruits 
of  his  labor  to  mankind ;  his  recompenses 
he  had  chosen  according  to  his  desires. 
When  you  consider  these  thiags,  you 
perforce  have  to  revise  your  first  notion 
of  him  as  a  useless  sort  of  old  ruffian. 
As  you  come  to  know  him  better,  you 
must  love  him  for  the  kindliness,  the 
simple  honesty,  the  modesty  and  charity 
that  he  seems  to  draw  from  his  mountain 
environment.  There  are  hundreds  of 
him  buried  in  the  great  canons  of  the 
West. 


Our  prospector  was  a  little  uncertain 
as  to  his  plans.  Along  toward  autumn 
he  intended  to  land  at  some  reputed 
placers  near  Dinkey  Creek.  There  might 
be  something  in  that  district.  He  thought 
he  would  take  a  look.  In  the  meantime 
he  was  just  poking  up  through  the  coun 
try — he  and  his  jackasses.  Good  way 
to  spend  the  summer.  Perhaps  he  might 
run  across  something  'most  anywhere ; 
up  near  the  top  of  that  mountain  opposite 
looked  mineralized.  Didn't  know  but 
what  he'd  take  a  look  at  her  to-morrow. 

He  camped  near  us  during  three  days. 
I  never  saw  a  more  modest,  self-effacing 
man.  He  seemed  genuinely,  childishly, 
almost  helplessly  interested  in  our  fly 
fishing,  shooting,  our  bearskins,  and  our 
travels.  You  would  have  thought  from 
his  demeanor — which  was  sincere  and 
not  in  the  least  ironical — that  he  had 
never  seen  or  heard  anything  quite  like 
that  before,  and  was  struck  with  wonder 
at  it.  Yet  he  had  cast  flies  before  we 
were  born,  and  shot  even  earlier  than  he 
had  cast  a  fly,  and  was  a  very  Ishmael 
for  travel.  Barely  could  you  get  an 
account  of  his  own  experiences,  and 
then  only  in  illustration  of  something 
else. 

"  If  you-all  likes  bear-hunting,"  said 
he,  "you  ought  to  get  up  in  eastern 
Oregon.  I  summered  there  once.  The 
only  trouble  is,  the  brush  is  thick  as 
hair.  You  'most  always  have  to  bait 
them,  or  wait  for  them  to  come  and  drink. 
The  brush  is  so  small  you  ain't  got  much 
chance.  I  run  onto  a  she-bear  and  cubs 
that  way  once.  Didn't  have  nothin'  but 
my  six-shooter,  and  I  met  her  within  six 
foot." 

He  stopped  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  do  ?"  we  asked. 

"  Me  ?"  he  inquired,  surprised.  "  Oh, 
I  just  leaked  out  of  th'  landscape." 

He  prospected  the  mountain  opposite, 
loafed  with  us  a  little,  and  then  decided 
that  he  must  be  going.  About  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning  he  passed  us, 
hazing  his  burros,  his  tall,  lean  figure 
elastic  in  defiance  of  years. 

"  So  long,  boys,"  he  called  ;  "  good 
luck  !" 

"  So  long,"  we  respond^,  heartily. 
"  Be  good  to  yourself." 

He   plunged    into    the   river    without 


THE   TOP   OF    THE    SIERRAS 


The  Mountains 


823 


hesitation,  emerged  dripping  on  the  other 
side,  and  disappeared  in  the  brush. 
From  time  to  time  during  the  rest  of  the 
morning  we  heard  the  intermittent  tink 
ling  of  his  bell-animal  rising  higher  and 
higher  above  us  on  the  trail. 

In  the  person  of  this  man  we  gained 
our  first  connection,  so  to  speak,  with 
the  Golden  Trout.  He  had  caught  some 
of  them,  and  could  tell  us  of  their  habits. 

Few  fishermen  west  of  the  Rockies 
have  not  heard  of  the  Golden  Trout, 
though  equally  few  have  much  definite 
information  concerning  it.  Such  infor 
mation  usually  runs  about  as  follows : 

It  is  a  medium-size  fish  of  the  true 
trout  family,  resembling  a  rainbow  except, 
that  it  is  of  a  rich  golden  color.  The 
peculiarity  that  makes  its  capture  a 
dream  to  be  dreamed  of  is  that  it  swims 
in  but  one  little  stream  of  all  the  round 
globe.  If  you  would  catch  a  Golden 
Trout,  you  must  climb  up  under  the 
very  base  of  the  end  of  the  High  Sierras. 
There  is  born  a  stream  that  flows  down 
from  an  elevation  of  about  ten  thousand 
feet  to  about  eight  thousand  before  it 
takes  a  long  plunge  into  a  branch  of  the 
Kern  River.  Over  the  twenty  miles  of 
its  course  you  can  cast  your  fly  for 
Golden  Trout;  but  what  is  the  nature 
of  that  stream,  that  fish,  or  the  method 
of  its  capture,  few  can  tell  you  with  any 
pretense  of  accuracy. 

To  be  sure,  there  are  legends.  One, 
particularly  striking,  claims  that  the 
Golden  Trout  occurs  in  one  other 
stream — situated  in  Central  Asia  I — and 
that  the  fish  is  therefore  a  remnant  of 
some  pre-glacial  period,  like  Sequoia 
trees,  a  sort  of  granddaddy  of  all  trout, 


as  it  were.  This  is  but  a  sample  of  what 
you  will  hear  discussed. 

Of  course  from  the  very  start  we  had 
had  our  eye  on  the  Golden  Trout,  and 
intended  sooner  or  later  to  work  our  way 
to  his  habitat.  Our  prospector  had  just 
come  from  there. 

"  It's  about  four  weeks  south,  the  way 
you  and  me  travels,"  said  he.  "  You 
don't  want  to  try  Harrison's  Pass;  it's 
chock  full  of  tribulation.  Go  around  by 
way  of  the  Giant  Forest.  She's  pretty 
good  there,  too,  some  sizable  timber. 
Then  over  by  Redwood  Meadows,  and 
Timber  Gap,  by  Mineral  King,  and  over 
through  Farewell  Gap.  You  turn  east 
there,  on  a  new  trail.  She's  steeper 
than  straight-up-an'-down,  but  shorter 
than  the  other.  When  you  get  down  in 
the  canon  of  Kern  River — say,  she's  a  fine 
canon,  too — you  want  to  go  downstream 
about  two  mile  to  where  there's  a  sort 
of  natural  overflowed  lake  full  of  stubs 
stickin'  up.  You'll  get  some  awful  big 
rainbows  in  there.  Then  your  best  way 
is  to  go  right  up  Whitney  Creek  Trail  to  a 
big  high  meadows  mighty  nigh  to  timber- 
line.  That's  where  I  camped.  They's 
lots  of  them  little  yaller  fish  there.  Oh, 
they  bite  well  enough.  You'll  catch  'em. 
They's  a  little  shy." 

So  in  that  guise — as  the  desire  for 
new  and  distant  things — did  our  angel 
with  the  flaming  sword  finally  come  to 
us. 

We  caught  reluctant  horses  reluctantly. 
All  the  first  day  was  to  be  a  climb.  We 
knew  it ;  and  I  suspect  that  they  knew 
it  too.  Then  we  packed  and  addressed 
ourselves  to  the  task  offered  us  by  the 
Basin  Trail. 


August 


By  Sara  Andrew  Shafer 
Photograph  by  L.  M.  McCormick 

Over  the  blue  sea  broods  the  heat, 
In  faintest  pulses  the  tired  tides  beat ; 
Over  the  sands,  with  the  sun  aglow, 
Silent  the  cloud-shades  come  and  go  ; 
A  white-winged  sail  on  the  water  gleams 
Faint  and  far,   like  a  Ship-o'-Dreams. 
The  year's  great  Sabbath  fills  the  air — 
And  languor  and  slumber  are  everywhere. 

Then  storm-winds  rise  :    then   breakers  roar : 
Then  wrecks  are  tossed  on  the  rocky  shore  ! 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


897 


unison  and  with  excellent  effect  a  Japan 
ese  song  that  had  been  set  to  the  air  of 
"  'Way  Down  on  the  Suwanee  River." 

At  eleven  o'clock,  when,  at  last,  we 
bade  Admiral  Shibiyama  good-night,  the 
band  played  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  and  as 
the  American  members  of  our  party  left 
the  club,  the  Japanese  officers  at  the 
door  cheered  us  with  a  "  Hip  1  hip  1 
hurrah  1" 

In  recalling  the  impressions  that  the 
.Kure  naval  station  made  upon  me,  I 
must  give  the  first  place,  I  think,  to  a 
feeling  of  intense  surprise  at  the  results 
achieved.  Here  is  a  people  that  only 
fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  was  using  medi 
aeval  weapons  and  sailing  the  sea  in 
junks.  They  knew  how  to  paint,  enamel, 
make  porcelain,  cast  small  bronzes,  inlay 
in  silver  and  gold,  and  embroider  on 
silk ;  but  no  one  would  have  credited 
them  with  the  capacity  for  doing  big 
things  in  a  big  way.  When,  therefore, 
one  finds  them  creating  great  steel  plants 
and  gun  foundries,  making  thirteen-inch 
rifled  cannon,  building  war-ships,  con 


structing  huge  dry  docks,  employing  fif 
teen  thousand  skilled  workmen  in  a  single 
establishment,  and  managing,  without 
foreign  assistance,  the  most  complicated 
and  ponderous  machinery  known  to  mod 
ern  mechanical  art,  one's  first  feeling, 
naturally,  is  surprise. 

The  next  thing  that  impressed  me 
at  Kure  was  the  careful,  thorough,  pains 
taking  way  in  which  the  element  of 
chance  in  naval  warfare  has  been  elim 
inated,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  elimi 
nate  it,  by  intelligent  forethought  and 
skillful  preparation.  If  I  had  seen  Kure 
before  the  outbreak  of  the  present  war, 
I  should  have  had  no  doubt  whatever  of 
Japan's  success  at  sea.  In  the  training 
of  her  stokers,  her  engineers,  her  sea 
men,  her  gunners,  and  her  torpedo  crews, 
in  the  creation  of  great  plants  for  the 
manufacture  of  ordnance,  projectiles, 
torpedoes,  and  explosive  mines,  and  in 
aiming  first,  last,  and  all  the  time  at  the 
utmost  possible  efficiency,  in  small  things 
as  well  as  in  great,  she  organized  suc 
cess  and  "  prearranged  "  victory. 
Sasebo. 


The   Mountains 

By  Stewart  Edward  White 

Author  of  "  The  Forest,"  "  The  Blazed  Trail,"  "  The  Silent  Places,"  etc. 

XIV. — On   Camp   Cookery 


ONE  morning  I  awoke  a  little  be 
fore  the  others,  and  lay  on  my 
back  staring  up  through  the 
trees.  It  was  not  my  day  to  cook.  We 
were  camped  at  the  time  only  about 
sixty-five  hundred  feet  high,  and  the 
weather  was  warm.  Every  sort  of  green 
thing  grew  very  lush  all  about  us,  but 
our  own  little  space  was  held  dry  and 
clear  for  us  by  the  needles  of  two  enor 
mous  red  cedars  some  four  feet  in  di 
ameter.  A  variety  of  thoughts  sifted 
through  my  mind  as  it  followed  lazily 
the  shimmering  filaments  of  loose  spider- 
web  streaming  through  space.  The  last 
thought  stuck.  It  was  that  that  day  was 
a  holiday.  Theiefore  I  unlimbered  my 
six-shooter,  and  turned  her  loose,  each 

i  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


shot  being  accompanied  by  a  meritorious 
yell. 

The  outfit  boiled  out  of  its  blankets. 
I  explained  the  situation,  and  after  they 
had  had  some  breakfast  they  agreed  with 
me  that  a  celebration  was  in  order. 
Unanimously  we  decided  to  make  it  gas 
tronomic. 

"  We  will  ride  till  we  get  to  good 
feed,"  we  concluded,  "  and  then  we'll 
cook  all  the  afternoon.  And  nobody- 
must  eat  anything  until  the  whole  busi 
ness  is  prepared  and  served." 

It  was  agreed.  We  rode  until  we 
were  very  hungry,  which  was  eleven 
o'clock.  Then  we  rode  some  more. 
By  and  by  we  came  to  a  log  cabin  in  a 
wide  fair  lawn  below  a  high  mountain 
with  a  ducal  coronet  on  its  top,  and 


898 


The  Outlook 


[13  August 


around  that  cabin  was  a  fence,  and  in 
side  the  fence  a  man  chopping  wood. 
Him  we  hailed.  He  came  to  the  fence 
and  grinned  at  us  from  the  elevation  of 
high-heeled  boots.  By  this  token  we 
knew  him  for  a  cow-puncher. 

"  How  are  you  ?"  said  we. 

"Howdy,  boys,"  he  roared.  Roared 
is  the  accurate  expression.  He  was  not 
a  large  man,  and  his  hair  was  sandy, 
and  his  eye  mild  blue.  But  undoubt 
edly  his  kinsmen  were  dumb  and  he  had 
as  birthright  the  voice  for  the  entire 
family.  It  had  been  subsequently  devel 
oped  in  the  shouting  after  the  wild 
cattle  of  the  hills.  Now  his  ordinary 
conversational  tone  was  that  of  the  an 
nouncer  at  a  circus.  But  his  heart  was 
good. 

"  Can  we  camp  here  ?"  we  inquired. 

"Sure  thing,"  he  bellowed.  "Turn 
your  horses  into  the  meadow.  Camp 
right  here." 

But  with  the  vision  of  a  rounded 
wooded  knoll  a  few  hundred  yards  dis 
tant  we  said  we'd  just  get  out  of  his  way 
a  little.  We  crossed  a  creek,  mounted 
an  easy  slope  to  the  top  of  the  knoll, 
and  were  delighted  to  observe  just  below 
its  summit  the  peculiar  fresh  green 
hump  which  indicates  a  spring.  The 
Tenderfoot,  however,  knew  nothing  of 
springs,  for  shortly  he  trudged  a  weary 
way  back  to  the  creek,  and  so  returned 
bearing  kettles  of  water.  This  per 
formance  hugely  astonished  the  cowboy, 
who  subsequently  wanted  to  know  if  a 
"  critter  had  died  in  the  spring." 

Wes  departed  to  borrow  a  big  Dutch 
oven  of  the  man  and  to  invite  him  to 
come  across  when  we  raised  the  long 
yell.  Then  we  began  operations. 

Now  camp  cooks  are  of  two  sorts. 
Anybody  can  with  a  little  practice  fry 
bacon,  steak,  or  flapjacks,  and  boil 
coffee.  The  reduction  of  the  raw  ma 
terial  to  its  most  obvious  cooked  result 
is  within  the  reach  of  all  but  the  most 
hopeless  tenderfoot  who  never  knows 
the  salt-sack  from  the  sugar-sack.  But 
your  true  artist  at  the  business  is  he  who 
can  from  six  ingredients,  by  permuta 
tion,  combination,  and  the  genius  that  is 
in  him,  turn  out  a  full  score  of  dishes. 
For  simple  example  : 

Given,    rice,    oatmeal,    and    raisins. 


Your  expert  accomplishes  the  follow 
ing: 

Item — Boiled  rice. 

Item — Boiled  oatmeal. 

Item — Rice  boiled  until  soft,  then 
stiffened  by  the  addition  of  quarter  as 
much  oatmeal. 

Item — Oatmeal  in  which  is  boiled  al 
most  to  the  dissolving  point  a  third  as 
much  rice. 

These  latter  two  dishes  taste  entirely 
unlike  each  other  or  their  separate  in 
gredients.  They  are  moreover  great  in 
nutrition. 

Item — Boiled  rice  and  raisins. 

Item — Dish  number  three  with  raisins. 

Item — Rice  boiled  with  raisins,  sugar 
sprinkled  on  top,  then  baked. 

Item — Ditto  with  dish  number  three. 

All  these  are  good — and  different. 

Some  people  like  to  cook  and  have  a 
natural  knack  for  it.  Others  hate  it.  If 
you  are  one  of  the  former,  select  a  propi 
tious  moment  to  suggest  that  you  will 
cook,  if  the  rest  will  wash  the  dishes  and 
supply  the  wood  and  water.  Thus  you 
will  get  first  crack  at  the  fire  in  the  chill 
of  morning  ;  and  at  night  you  can  squat 
on  your  heels  doing  light  labor  while  the 
others  rustle. 

In  a  mountain  trip  small  stout  bags 
for  the  provisions  are  necessary.  They 
should  be  big  enough  to  contain,  say, 
five  pounds  of  corn-meal,  and  should  tie 
firmly  at  the  top.  It  will  be  absolutely 
labor  lost  for  you  to  mark  them  on  the 
outside,  as  the  outside  soon  will  become 
uniform  in  color  with  your  marking. 
Tags  might  do,  if  occasionally  renewed. 
But  if  you  have  the  instinct,  you  will  soon 
come  to  recognize  the  appearance  of  the 
different  bags  as  you  recognize  the  fea 
tures  of  your  family.  They  should  con 
tain  small  quantities  for  immediate  use 
of  the  provisions  the  main  stock  of  which 
is  carried  on  another  pack-animal.  One 
tin  plate  apiece  and  "  one  to  grow  on ;" 
the  same  of  tin  cups ;  half  a  dozen 
spoons  ;  four  knives  and  forks ;  a  big 
spoon ;  two  frying-pans ;  a  broiler ;  a 
coffee-pot ;  a  Dutch  oven ;  and  three 
light  sheet-iron  pails  to  nest  in  one 
another,  was  what  we  carried  on  this 
trip.  You  see,  we  had  horses.  Of 
course  in  the  woods  that  outfit  would  be 
materially  reduced. 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


899 


For  the  same  reason,  since  we  had  our 
carrying  done  for  us,  we  took  along  two 
flat  iron  bars  about  twenty-four  inches 
in  length.  These,  laid  across  two  stones 
between  which  the  fire  had  been  built, 
we  used  to  support  our  cooking  utensils 
stove-wise.  I  should  never  carry  a  stove. 
This  arrangement  is  quite  as  effective, 
and  possesses  the  added  advantage  that 
wood  does  not  have  to  be  cut  for  it  of 
any  definite  length.  Again,  in  the  woods 
these  iron  bars  would  be  a  senseless 
burden.  But  early  you  will  learn  that 
while  it  is  foolish  to  carry  a  single  ounce 
more  than  will  pay  in  comfort  or  con 
venience  for  its  own  transportation,  it  is 
equally  foolish  to  refuse  the  comforts  or 
conveniences  that  modified  circum 
stance  will  permit  you.  To  carry  only 
a  forest  equipment  with  pack-animals 
would  be  as  silly  as  to  carry  only  a  pack- 
animal  outfit  on  a  Pullman  car.  Only 
look  out  that  you  do  not  reverse  it. 

Even  if  you  do  not  intend  to  wash 
dishes,  bring  along  some  washing  pow 
der.  It  is  much  simpler  in  getting  at 
odd  corners  of  obstinate  kettles  than  any 
soap.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  boil  some 
of  it  in  that  kettle,  and  the  utensil  is 
tamed  at  once. 

That's  about  all  you,  as  expert  cook, 
are  going  to  need  in  the  way  of  equip 
ment.  Now  as  to  your  fire. 

There  are  a  number  of  ways  of  build 
ing  a  cooking  fire,  but  they  share  one 
first  requisite:  it  should  be  small.  A 
blaze  will  burn  everything,  including 
your  hands  and  your  temper.  Two  logs 
laid  side  by  side  and  slanted  towards 
each  other  so  that  small  things  can  go 
on  the  narrow  end  and  big  things  on  the 
wide  end ;  flat  rocks  arranged  in  the 
same  manner ;  a  narrow  trench  in  which 
the  fire  is  built;  and  the  flat  irons  just 
described — these  are  the  best-known 
methods.  Use  dry  wood.  Arrange  to 
do  your  boiling  first — in  the  flame  ;  and 
your  frying  and  broiling  last — after  the 
flames  have  died  to  coals. 

So  much  in  general.  You  must  re 
member  that  open-air  cooking  is  in  many 
things  quite  different  from  indoor  cook 
ing.  You  have  different  utensils,  are 
exposed  to  varying  temperatures,  are 
limited  in  resources,  and  pursued  by  a 
necessity  of  haste.  Preconceived  notions 


must  go  by  the  board.  You  are  after 
results  ;  and  if  you  get  them,  do  not 
mind  the  feminines  of  your  household 
lifting  the  hands  of  horror  over  the  un 
orthodox  means.  Mighty  few  women  I 
have  ever  seen  were  good  camp-fire 
cooks  ;  not  because  camp-fire  cookery  is 
especially  difficult,  but  because  they  are 
temperamentally  incapable  of  ridding 
themselves  of  the  notion  that  certain 
things  should  be  done  in  a  certain  way, 
and  because  if  an  ingredient  lacks,  they 
cannot  bring  themselves  to  substitute 
an  approximation.  They  would  rather 
abandon  the  dish  than  do  violence  to 
the  sacred  art. 

Most  camp-cookery  advice  is  quite 
useless  for  the  same  reason.  I  have 
seen  many  a  recipe  begin  with  the  words : 
"  Take  the  yolks  of  four  eggs,  half  a 
cup  of  butter,  and  a  cup  of  fresh  milk — " 
As  if  any  one  really  camping  in  the 
wilderness  ever  had  eggs,  butter,  and 
milk! 

Now  here  is  something  I  cooked  for 
this  particular  celebration.  Every  woman 
to  whom  I  have  ever  described  it  has 
informed  me  vehemently  that  it  is  not 
cake,  and  must  be  "  horrid."  Perhaps 
it  is  not  cake,  but  it  looks  yellow  and 
light,  and  tastes  like  cake. 

First  I  took  two  cups  of  flour,  and  a 
half  cup  of  corn-meal  to  make  it  look 
yellow.  In  this  I  mixed  a  lot  of  baking- 
powder — about  twice  what  one  should 
use  for  bread — and  topped  off  with  a 
cup  of  sugar.  The  whole  I  mixed  with 
water  into  a  light  dough.  Into  the 
dough  went  raisins  that  had  previously 
been  boiled  to  swell  them  up.  Thus 
was  the  cake  mixed.  Now  I  poured 
half  the  dough  into  the  Dutch  oven, 
sprinkled  it  with  a  good  layer  of  sugar, 
cinnamon,  and  unboiled  raisins  ;  poured 
in  the  rest  of  the  dough ;  repeated  the 
layer  of  sugar,  cinnamon,  and  raisins; 
and  baked  in  the  Dutch*  oven.  It  was 
gorgeous,  and  we  ate  it  at  one  fell 
swoop. 

While  we  are  about  it,  we  may  as 
well  work  backwards  on  this  particular 
orgy  by  describing  the  rest  of  our  des 
sert.  In  addition  to  the  cake  and  some 
stewed  apricots,  I,  as  cook  of  the  day, 
constructed  also  a  pudding. 

The  basis  was  flour — two  cups  of  it. 


900 


The  Outlook 


[13  August 


Into  this  I  dumped  a  handful  of  raisins, 
a  tablespoonf ul  of  baking-powder,  two  of 
sugar,  and  about  a  pound  of  fat  salt  pork 
cutinto  little  cubes.  This  I  mixed  up  into 
a  mess  by  means  of  a  cup  or  so  of  water 
and  a  quantity  of  larrnpy-dope.1  Then 
I  dipped  a  flour-sack  in  hot  water,  wrung 
it  out,  sprinkled  it  with  dry  flour,  and 
half  filled  it  with  my  pudding  mixture. 
The  whole  outfit  I  boiled  for  two  hours 
in  a  kettle.  It,  too,  was  good  to  the 
palate,  and  was  even  better  sliced  and 
fried  the  following  morning. 

This  brings  us  to  the  suspension  of 
kettles.  There  are  two  ways.  If  you 
are  in  a  hurry,  cut  a  springy  pole, 
sharpen  one  end,  and  stick  it  perpendic 
ular  in  the  ground.  Bend  it  down  to 
wards  your  fire.  Hang  your  kettle  on 
the  end  of  it.  If  you  have  jabbed  it  far 
enough  into  the  ground  in  the  first  place, 
it  will  balance  nicely  by  its  own  spring 
and  the  elasticity  of  the  turf.  The  other 
method  is  to  plant  two  forked  sticks  on 
either  side  your  fire  over  which  a  strong 
cross-piece  is  laid.  The  kettles  are 
hung  on  hooks  cut  from  forked  branches. 
The  forked  branches  are  attached  to 
the  cross-piece  by  means  of  thongs  or 
withes. 

On  this  occasion  we  had  deer,  grouse, 
and  ducks  in  the  larder.  The  best  way 
to  treat  them  is  as  follows.  You  may 
be  sure  we  adopted  the  best  way. 

When  your  deer  is  fresh,  you  will  en 
joy  greatly  a  dish  of  liver  and  bacon. 
Only  the  liver  you  will  discover  to  be  a 
great  deal  tenderer  and  more  delicate 
than  any  calf's  liver  you  ever  ate.  There 
is  this  difference :  a  deer's  liver  should 
be  parboiled  in  order  to  get  rid  of  a 
green  bitter  scum  that  will  rise  to  the 
surface  and  which  you  must  skim  off. 

Next  in  order  is  the  "  back  strap  "  and 
tenderloin,  which  is  always  tender,  even 
when  fresh.  The  hams  should  be  kept 
at  least  five  days.  Deer-steak,  to  my 
notion,  is  best  broiled,  though  occasion 
ally  it  is  pleasant,  by  way  of  variety,  to 
fry  it.  In  that  case  a  brown  gravy  is 
made  by  thoroughly  heating  flour  in  the 
grease,  and  then  stirring  in  water.  Deer- 
steak  threaded  on  switches  and  "  barbe 
cued  "  over  the  coals  is  delicious.  The 
outside  will  be  a  little  blackened,  but  all 

1  Camp-lingo  for  any  kind  of  syrup. 


the  juices  will  be  retained.  To  enjoy 
this  to  the  utmost,  you  should  take  it  in 
your  fingers  and  gnaw.  The  only  per 
missible  implement  is  your  hunting- 
knife.  Do  not  forget  to  peel  and  char 
slightly  the  switches  on  which  you  thread 
the  meat;  otherwise  they  will  impart 
their  fresh-wood  taste. 

By  this  time  the  ribs  are  in  condition. 
Cut  little  slits  between  them,  and  through 
the  slits  thread  in  and  out  long  strips  of 
bacon.  Cut  other  little  gashes,  and  fill 
these  gashes  with  onions  chopped  very 
fine.  Suspend  the  ribs  across  two 
stones,  between  which  you  have  allowed 
a  fire  to  die  down  to  coals. 

There  remain  now  the  hams,  shoulders, 
and  heart.  The  two  former  furnish 
steaks.  The  latter  you  will  make  into  a 
"bouillon."  Here  inserts  itself  quite 
naturally  the  philosophy  of  boiling  meat. 
It  may  be  stated  in  a  paragraph. 

If  you  want  boiled  meat,  put  it  in  hot 
water.  That  sets  the  juices.  If  you 
want  soup,  put  it  in  cold  water  and 
bring  to  a  boil.  That  sets  free  the 
juices.  Remember  this. 

Now  you  start  your  bouillon  cold. 
Into  a  kettle  of  water  put  your  deer 
hearts,  or  your  fish,  a  chunk  of  pork, 
and  some  salt.  Bring  to  a  boil.  Next 
drop  in  quartered  potatoes,  several  small 
whole  onions,  a  half  cupful  of  rice,  a  can 
of  tomatoes — if  you  have  any.  Boil 
slowly  for  an  hour  or  so — until  things 
pierce  easily  under  the  fork.  Add  sev 
eral  chunks  of  bread  and  a  little  flour 
for  thickening.  Boil  down  to  about  a 
chowder  consistency,  and  serve  hot.  It 
is  all  you  will  need  for  that  meal ;  and 
you  will  eat  of  it  until  there  is  no  more. 

I  am  supposing  throughout  that  you 
know  enough  to  use  salt  and  pepper 
when  needed. 

-So  much  for  your  deer.  The  grouse 
you  can  split  and  fry  ;  in  which  case  the 
brown  gravy  described  for  the  fried 
deer-steak  is  just  the  thing.  Or  you  can 
boil  him.  If  you  do  that,  put  him  into 
hot  water,  boil  slowly,  skim  frequently, 
and  add  dumplings  mixed  of  flour,  bak 
ing-powder,  and  a  little  la'rd.  Or  you 
can  roast  him  in  your  Dutch  oven  with 
your  ducks. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  well  here  to  ex 
plain  the  Dutch  oven.  It  is  a  heavy 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


901 


iron  kettle  with  little  legs  and  an  iron 
cover.  The  theory  of  it  is  that  coals  go 
among  the  little  legs  and  on  top  of  the 
iron  cover.  This  heats  the  inside,  and 
so  cooking  results.  That,  you  will  ob 
serve,  is  the  theory. 

In  practice  you  will  have  to  remember 
a  good  many  things.  In  the  first  place, 
while  other  affairs  are  preparing,  lay  the 
cover  on  the  fire  to  heat  it  through ;  but 
not  on  too  hot  a  place  nor  too  long,  lest 
it  warp  and  so  fit  loosely.  Also  the  oven 
itself  is  to  be  heated  through,  and  well 
greased.  Your  first  baking  will  undoubt 
edly  be  burned  on  the  bottom.  It  is 
almost  impossible  without  many  trials  to 
understand  just  how  little  heat  suffices 
underneath.  Sometimes  it  seems  that 
the  warmed  earth  where  the  fire  has 
been  is  enough.  And  on  top  you  do  not 
want  a  bonfire.  A  nice  even  heat,  and 
patience,  are  the  proper  ingredients. 
Nor  drop  into  the  error  of  letting  your 
bread  chill,  and  so  fall  to  unpalatable 
heaviness.  Probably  for  some  time  you 
will  alternate  between  the  extremes  of 
heavy  crusts  with  doughy  insides,  and 
white,  weighty  boiler-plate,  with  no  dis 
tinguishable  crusts  at  all.  Above  all,  do 
not  lift  the  lid  too  often  for  the  sake  of 
taking  a  look.  Have  faith. 

There  are  other  ways  of  baking  bread. 
In  the  North  Country  forests,  where  you 
carry  everything  on  your  back,  you  will 
do  it  in  the  frying-pan.  The  mixture 
should  be  a  rather  thick  batter  or  a 
rather  thin  dough.  It  is  turned  into  the 
frying-pan  and  baked  first  on  one  side, 
then  on  the  other,  the  pan  being  propped 
on  edge  facing  the  fire.  The  whole 
secret  of  success  is,  first  to  set  your  pan 
horizontal  and  about  three  feet  from  the 
fire,  in  order  that  the  mixture  may  be 
thoroughly  warmed — not  heated — before 
the  pan  is  propped  on  edge.  Still  another 
way  of  baking  is  in  a  reflector  oven  of 
tin.  This  is  highly  satisfactory,  pro 
vided  the  oven  is  built  on  the  scientific 
angles  to  throw  the  heat  evenly  on  all 
parts  of  the  bread-pan,  and  equally  on 
top  and  bottom.  It  is  not  so  easy  as 
you  might  imagine  to  get  a  good  one 
made.  These  reflectors  are  all  right  for 
a  permanent  camp,  but  too  fragile  for 
transportation  on  pack-animals. 

As  for  bread,  try  it  unleavened  once 


in  a  while  by  way  of  change.  It  is  really 
very  good — just  salt,  water,  flour,  and  a 
very  little  sugar.  For  those  who  like 
their  bread  "  all  crust"  it  is  especially 
toothsome.  The  usual  camp  bread  that 
I  have  found  the  most  successful  has 
been  in  the  proportion  of  two  cups  of 
flour  to  a  teaspoonful  of  salt,  one  of 
sugar,  and  three  of  baking-powder. 
Sugar  or  cinnamon  sprinkled  on  top  is 
sometimes  pleasant.  Test  by  thrusting 
a  splinter  into  the  loaf.  If  dough  ad 
heres  to  the  wood,  the  bread  is  not  done. 
Biscuits  are  made  by  using  twice  as 
much  baking-powder  and  about  two  table- 
spoonfuls  of  lard  for  shortening.  They 
bake  much  more  quickly  than  the  bread. 
Johnny-cake  you  mix  of  corn-meal  three 
cups,  flour  one  cup,  sugar  four  spoonfuls, 
salt  one  spoonful,  baking-powder  four 
spoonfuls,  and  lard  twice  as  much  as  for 
biscuits.  It  also  is  good,  very  good. 

The  flapjack  is  first  cousin  to  bread, 
very  palatable,  and  extremely  indigesti 
ble  when  made  of  flour,  as  is  ordinarily 
done.  However,  the  self-raising  buck 
wheat  flour  makes  an  excellent  flapjack, 
which  is  likewise  good  for  your  insides. 
The  batter  is  rather  thin,  is  poured  into 
the  piping  hot  greased  pan,  "  flipped  " 
when  brown  on  one  side,  and  eaten 
with  larrupy-dope  or  brown  gravy. 

When  you  come  to  consider  potatoes 
and  beans  and  onions  and  such  matters, 
remember  one  thing  :  that  in  the  higher 
altitudes  water  boils  at  a  low  tempera 
ture,  and  that  therefore  you  must  not 
expect  your  boiled  food  to  cook  very 
rapidly.  In  fact,  you'd  better  leave 
beans  at  home.  We  did.  Potatoes  you 
can  sometimes  tease  along  by  quarter 
ing  them. 

Rolled  oats  are  better  that  oatmeal. 
Put  them  in  plenty  of  water  and  boil 
down  to  the  desired  consistency.  In 
lack  of  cream  you  will  probably  want  it 
rather  soft. 

Put  your  coffee  into  cold  water,  bring 
to  a  boil,  let  boil  for  about  two  minutes, 
and  immediately  set  off.  Settle  by  let 
ting  a  half  cup  of  cold  water  flow  slowly 
into  the  pot  from  the  height  of  a  foot  or 
so.  If  your  utensils  are  clean,  you  will 
surely  have  good  coffee  by  this  simple 
method.  Of  course  you  will  never  boil 
your  tea, 


902 


The  Outlook 


[13  August 


The  sun  was  nearly  down  when  we 
raised  our  long  yell.  The  cow-puncher 
promptly  responded.  We  ate.  Then 
we  smoked.  Then  we  basely  left  all 
our  dishes  until  the  morrow,  and  followed 
our  cow-puncher  to  his  log  cabin,  where 
we  were  to  spend  the  evening. 

By  now  it  was  dark,  and  a  bitter  cold 
swooped  down  from  the  mountains.  We 
built  a  fire  in  a  huge  stone  fireplace  and 
sat  around  in  the  flickering  light  telling 


ghost  stories  to  one  another.  The  place 
was  rudely  furnished,  with  only  a  hard 
earthen  floor,  and  chairs  hewn  by  the 
ax.  Rifles,  spurs,  bits,  revolvers,  brand 
ing-irons  in  turn  caught  the  light  and 
vanished  in  the  shadow.  The  skin  of  a 
bear  looked  at  us  from  hollow  eye- 
sockets  in  which  there  were  no  eyes. 
We  talked  of  the  Long  Trail.  Outside 
the  wind,  rising,  howled  through  the 
shakes  of  the  roof. 


XV On   the  Wind   at  Night 


The  winds  were  indeed  abroad  that 
night.  They  rattled  our  cabin,  they 
shrieked  in  our  eaves,  they  puffed  down 
our  chimney,  scattering  the  ashes  and 
leaving  in  the  room  a  balloon  of  smoke 
as  though  a  shell  had  burst.  When  we 
opened  the  door  and  stepped  out,  after 
our  good-nights  had  been  said,  it  caught 
at  our  hats  and  garments  as  though  it 
had  been  lying  in  wait  for  us. 

To  our  eyes,  fire-dazzled,  the  night 
seemed  yery  dark.  There  would  be  a 
moon  later,  but  at  present  even  the  stars 
seemed  only  so  many  pinpoints  of  dull 
metal,  lusterless,  without  illumination. 
We  felt  our  way  to  camp,  conscious  of 
the  softness  of  grasses,  the  uncertainty 
of  stones. 

At  camp  the  remains  of  the  fire 
crouched  beneath  the  rating  of  the 
storm.  Its  embers  glowed  sullen  and 
red,  alternately  glaring  with  a  half- 
formed  resolution  to  rebel,  and  dying  to 
a  sulky  resignation.  Once  a  feeble  flame 
sprang  up  for  an  instant,  but  was  imme 
diately  pounced  on  and  beaten  flat  as 
though  by  a  vigilant  antagonist. 

We,  stumbling,  gathered  again  our 
tumbled  blankets.  Across  the  brow  of 
the  knoll  lay  a  huge  pine  trunk.  In  its 
shelter  we  respread  our  bedding,  and 
there,  standing,  dressed  for  the  night. 
The  power  of  the  wind  tugged  at  our 
loose  garments,  hoping  for  spoil.  A 
towel,  shaken  by  accident  from  the  in 
terior  of  a  sweater,  departed  white- 
winged,  like  a  bird,  into  the  outer  black 
ness.  We  found  it  next  day  caught  in 
the  bushes  several  hundred  yards  dis 
tant.  Our  voices  as  we  shouted  were 
snatched  from  our  lips  and  hurled  lav 
ishly  into  space.  The  very  breath  of 


our  bodies  seemed  driven  back,  so  that 
as  we  faced  the  elements,  we  breathed  in 
gasps,  with  difficulty. 

Then  we  dropped  down  into  our 
blankets. 

At  once  the  prostrate  tree-trunk  gave 
us  its  protection.  We  lay  in  a  little 
back-wash  of  the  racing  winds,  still  as  a 
night  in  June.  Over  us  roared  the 
battle.  We  felt  like  sharpshooters  in 
the  trenches;  as  though,  were  we  to 
raise  our  heads,  at  that  instant  we  should 
enter  a  zone  of  danger.  So  we  lay 
quietly  on  our  backs  and  stared  at  the 
heavens. 

The  first  impression  thence  given  was 
of  stars  sailing  serene  and  unaffected, 
remote  from  the  turbulence  of  what  un 
til  this  instant  had  seemed  to  fill  the  uni 
verse.  They  were  as  always,  just  as  we 
should  see  them  when  the  evening  was 
warm  and  the  tree-toads  chirped  clearly 
audible  at  half  a  mile.  The  importance 
of  the  tempest  shrank.  Then  below 
them  next  we  noticed  the  mountains ; 
they  too  were  serene  and  calm. 

Immediately  it  was  as  though  the 
storm  were  an  hallucination  ;  something 
not  objective ;  something  real,  but  within 
the  soul  of  him  who  looked  upon  it.  It 
claimed  sudden  kinship  with  those  black 
est  days  when  nevertheless  the  sun,  the 
mere  external  unimportant  sun,  shines 
with  superlative  brilliancy.  Emotions  of 
a  power  to  shake  the  foundations  of  life 
seemed  vaguely  to  stir  in  answer  to  these 
their  hollow  symbols.  For,  after  all,  we 
were  contented  at  heart  and  tranquil  in 
mind,  and  this  was  but  the  outer  gor 
geous  show  of  an  intense  emotional  ex 
perience  we  did  not  at  the  moment 
prove.  Our  nerves  responded  to  it  au- 


1904] 


The  Story  of  a  Bygone  Civilization 


903 


tomatically.  We  became  excited,  keyed 
to  a  high  tension,  and  so  lay  rigid  on 
our  backs,  as  though  fighting  out  the 
battles  of  our  souls. 

It  was  all  so  unreal  and  yet  so  plain 
to  our  senses  that  perforce  automatically 
our  experience  had  to  conclude  it  psy 
chical.  We  were  in  air  absolutely  still. 
Yet  above  us  the  trees  writhed  and 
twisted  and  turned  and  bent  and  struck 
back,  evidently  in  the  power  of  a  mighty 
force.  Across  the  calm  heavens  the 
murk  of  flying  atmosphere — I  have  al 
ways  maintained  that  if  you  looked 
closely  enough  you  could  see  the  wind — 
the  dim,  hardly-made-out,  fine  debris 
fleeing  high  in  the  air — these  faintly 
hinted  at  intense  movement  rushing 
down  through  space.  A  roar  of  sound 
filled  the  hollow  of  the  sky.  Occasion 
ally  it  intermitted,  falling  abruptly  in 
volume  like  the  mysterious  rare  hushings 
of  a  rapid  stream.  Then  the  familiar 
noises  of  a  summer  night  became  audi 


ble  for  the  briefest  instant — a  horse 
sneezed,  an  owl  hooted,  the  wild  call  of 
birds  came  down  the  wind.  And  with  a 
howl  the  legions  of  good  and  evil  took 
up  their  warring.  It  was  too  real,  and 
yet  it  was  not  reconcilable  with  the  calm 
of  our  resting-places. 

For  hours  we  lay  thus  in  all  the  in 
tensity  of  an  inner  storm  and  stress, 
which  it  seemed  could  not  fail  to  develop 
us,  to  mold  us,  to  age  us,  to  leave  on 
us  its  scars,  to  bequeath  us  its  peace  or 
remorse  or  despair,  as  would  some  great 
mysterious  dark  experience  direct  from 
the  sources  of  life.  And  then  abruptly 
we  were  exhausted,  as  we  should  have 
been  by  too  great  emotion.  We  fell 
asleep. 

The  morning  dawned  still  and  clear, 
and  garnished  and  set  in  order  as  though 
such  things  had  never  been.  Only  our 
white  towel  fluttered  like  a  flag  of  truce 
in  the  direction  the  mighty  elements  had 
departed. 


The   Story  of  a   Bygone   Civilization1 


HIGHLY  controversial  in  tone 
and  abounding  in  passages  that 
betray  a  lack  of  the  judicial 
temperament  of  the  born  historian,  the 
value  of  this  exhaustive  study  of  Moham 
medan  rule  and  civilization  in  Europe  is, 
nevertheless,  of  a  high  quality.  It  de 
mands,  nay  challenges,  searching  scrutiny 
not  alone  by  historians,  but  by  students  of 
religion,  sociology,  ethnology,  literature, 
art,  and  science.  One  can  readily  appre 
ciate  the  significance  of  the  author's 
statement  that  he  has  devoted  over 
twenty  years  to  its  preparation.  From 
hundreds  of  authorities,  English,  French, 
German,  Danish,  Swedish,  Spanish,  Por 
tuguese,  Italian,  Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew, 
and  Arabic,  ancient,  mediaeval,  and  mod 
ern,  he  has  drawn  a  wondrous  variety 
of  information  relating  not  only  to  the 
Moors,  but  to  the  contemporary  peoples  of 
Europe,  and  has  woven  this  into  a  nar 
rative  that  is  a  monument  of  erudition, 
pictoriality,  and  dynamic  force,  not  a 

1  The  History  of  the  Moorish  Empire  in  Europe. 
By  Samuel  Parsons  Scott.  The  J.  B.  Lippincott  Com 
pany,  Philadelphia. 


page  of  which,  however  offensive  the 
treatment  may  be  to  the  reader's  relig 
ious  sentiments,  can  be  called  uninter 
esting.  Indeed,  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  few  readers,  if  any,  will  not 
regret,  when  they  have  finished  the  two 
thousand  odd  pages,  that  the  author  has 
not  given  them  more — this,  too,  despite  a 
curious  repetition,  a  habit  of  constantly 
reiterating  points  in  order  to  drive  them 
home. 

Mr.  Scott's  point  of  view  and  the  pur 
pose  for  which  he  devoted  himself  to  so 
many  years  of  laborious  research  may 
readily  be  shown  by  a  brief  quotation. 
"  The  almost  universal  disbelief  in 
Moorish  civilization,"  he  remarks,  after 
a  lengthy  discussion  of  the  achievements 
of  the  Spanish  Arabs  ir  all  spheres  of 
human  activity,  "  is  hardly  less  remark 
able  than  its  creation  and  progress.  Sec 
tarian  prejudice,  ignorance  of  Arabic, 
and  a  fixed  determination  to  acknowl 
edge  ro  obligation  to  infidels  have  con 
curred  to  establish  and  confirm  the 
popular  opinion.  To  this  end  the 
Church  has  always  lent  its  powerful, 


904 


The  Outlook 


[13  August 


often  omnipotent,  aid.  Yet  in  spite  of 
systematic  suppression  of  facts  and  long- 
continued  misrepresentations,  it  cannot 
now  be  denied  that  no  race  effected  so 
much  for  all  that  concerns  the  practical 
welfare  of  mankind  as  the  Spanish  Mo 
hammedans  ;  that  no  race  of  kings  has 
deserved  so  large  a  measure  of  fame  as 
that  which  traces  its  lineage  to  Abd-al- 
Rahman  I."  After  this  nothing  in  the 
way  of  extravagant  praise  need  surprise 
the  reader.  In  his  enthusiasm  the 
author  attributes  to  the  Moors  the 
stimulus  to  the  Reformation  of  Luther 
and  the  revival  of  learning  in  Europe. 
"  It  is  both  popular  and  fashionable," 
he  observes,  "  to  ascribe  to  the  influence 
of  the  Crusades  the  awakening  of  the 
spirit  of  progress  which  ultimately  led 
to  the  revival  of  letters  and  the  political 
and  social  regeneration  of  Europe.  But 
the  Crusades  were  only,  in  an  indirect 
and  secondary  manner,  a  factor  of  civil 
ization.  On  the  other  hand,  their  ten 
dency  was  signally  destructive.  Their 
track  has  been  compared  to  that  left  by 
a  swarm  of  locusts.  .  .  .  The  results 
produced  upon  Europe  by  these  expedi 
tions,  instead  of  being  humanizing,  were 
most  disastrous."  The  Crusaders  are 
by  no  means  the  only  objects  of  his 
wrath.  He  draws  pictures,  the  reverse 
of  pleasant,  of  great  leaders  in  the  long 
struggle  of  Christendom  against  the 
Saracen,  and,  curious  inconsistency,  in 
his  effort  to  painf  in  most  lurid  hues  the 
sloughlike  condition  of  the  mediaeval 
Church  and  civilization  of  Europe  falls 
back  upon  the  "  monkish  annalists," 
whose  exaggerations,  superstition,  and 
credulity  he  denounces  in  no  uncertain 
terms  when  their  writings  reflect  upon 
the  peoples  he  would  here  rehabilitate. 
Frankly  he  admits  that  he  writes  from 
the  Saracen  standpoint.  In  the  course 
of  his  study  of  the  momentous  battle  of 
Covadongo  he  remarks :  "  In  this,  as  in 
all  other  instances  where  the  statements 
of  the  Arab  and  Christian  writers  of 
that  age  conflict,  the  preference  should 
be  given  to  the  assertions  of  the  former." 
Despite  this  uncompromising  and  regret 
table  bias,  his  work,  we  repeat,  is  of 
great  value,  if  only  for  the  manner  in 
which  he  has  assembled  the  salient  facts 
connected  with  the  rise,  decline,  and 


fall  of  Mohammedan  power  in  Spain — 
but  one  phase,  after  all,  of  his  far-reach 
ing  survey. 

It  is  out  of  the  question  to  attempt 
more  than  a  brief  outline  of  the  scope 
of  the  work ;  to  discuss  it  with  any  de 
gree  of  adequacy  would  require  many 
pages  of  The  Outlook.  Mr.  Scott  opens 
with  an  exploration  of  Arab  character 
istics,  customs,  and  manners,  tracing  the 
.  career  of  Mohammed,  the  rise  of  the 
religion  founded  by  him,  and  the  exten 
sion  of  the  Mohammedan  empire  west 
ward.  Here  he  reveals  to  us  all  the 
romance  of  the  wars  with  the  Berbers, 
upon  which  people  he  foists,  and  un 
doubtedly  correctly,  a  large  share  of  the 
blame  for  the  disintegration  of  Moorish 
power  in  Spain.  An  earnest  student  of 
the  philosophy  of  history,  it  must  be 
accounted  surprising  that  with  all  his 
diligent  research  he  overlooks,  or  rather 
condones,  the  factor  that  was  above  all 
responsible  for  the  swift  decline  of  the 
empire — the  factor  of  Saracen  lust.  The 
conquests  of  the  Arabs,  he  complacently 
observes,  "  were  secured  and  their  gov 
ernment  made  permanent  by  that  pecu 
liar  provision  of  their  civil  polity  which, 
appealing  to  the  strongest  of  human  pas 
sions  and  sanctioned  by  the  injunctions 
of  their  prophet,  permitted  the  appro 
priation  of  the  women  of  vanquished 
nations."  A  civilization  rooted  in  the 
polygamy  and  rapine  that  he  can  view 
with  equanimity  can  never  hope  to  be 
an  enduring  civilization.  Throughout 
his  study  of  the  emirates,  the  caliphates, 
the  oligarchies,  and  the  African  usurpa 
tions  that  follow  one  another  in  dazzling 
succession,  lust  stalks  hand  in  hand 
with  treachery,  and  the  marvel  is  not 
that  the  Moorish  empire  fell,  but  that 
it  was  of  such  duration.  Granted  that 
a  remarkable  degree  of  civilization  was 
attained  by  these  whilom  savage  tribes 
of  the  desert;  granted  that  they  be 
queathed  to  posterity  legacies  of  no  un 
certain  value,  Mr.  Scott  must  for  his 
part  admit  that  their  touch  was  in  many 
respects  a  blight.  His  indictment  of 
his  pet  aversion,  the  Spaniard,  as  re 
sponsible  for  the  present  decadence  of 
the  Peninsula,  is  sustained  by  facts ;  but 
it  is  well  to  remember  that  the  Spaniard, 
in  the  period  of  national  character-build- 


1904] 


Man's  Place  in  the  Universe 


937 


Tail's  "The  Unseen  Universe  " — whose 
conception  of  it  is  that  "  it  has  developed 
by  an  intelligence  resident  in  the  unseen, 
and  by  scientific  analogy  returns  to  the 
spirituality  of  the  unseen."  In  this 
pregnant  sentence  matter  is  regarded  as 
an  incident  between  the  creation  of  man 
and  his  final  destiny,  while  first  and  last 
he  is  himself  spiritual  and  returns 
whence  he  came. 

We  are  surprised  on  the  last  page  of 
Mr.  Wallace's  book  to  find  an  admission 
that  qualifies  the  tenor  of  the  entire  vol 
ume.  He  says  :  "  Of  course  there  may 
be,  and  probably  are,  other  universes, 
perhaps  of  other  kinds  of  matter  and 
subject  to  other  laws,  perhaps  more  like 
our  conception  of  the  ether,  perhaps 
wholly  non-material,  and  what  we  can 
only  conceive  of  as  spiritual."  This  is 
the  very  thing  we  have  demanded  in 
our  long  imprisonment  in  matter  in  the 
previous  pages — every  sentence  a  knell 
of  despair.  Were  there  not  so  much 
well-stated  science,  we  should  be  tempted 
to  say  that  it  nullifies  all  that  has  gone 
before.  Another  kind  of  universe, 
"  wholly  non-material " — to  this  we  must 
go  if  we  would  know  anything  of  our 
origin  and  destiny,  or  of  human  life  be- 
tween ;  for  it  is  the  spiritual  that  makes 
us  human.  It  is  here  also  that  we  can 
get  any  light  both  on  immortality  and 
possible  life  in,  other  worlds.  The  two 
problems  run  together,  but  both  hinge 
on  life  that  is  non-material — that  is,  on 
the  reality  of  the  Spirit  as  creative 
Will.  The  Spirit  brooded  on  the  waters 
and  begot  the  world ;  it  overshadowed 
humanity,  and  man  was  the  son  of 
God. 

The  Spirit  is  a  mystery,  but  matter,  if 
taken  alone,  is  inexplicable.  Tennyson 
makes  an  accurate  distinction  in  his 
most  used  and  perhaps  farthest-reaching 
poem — "  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall " — 
because  it  contains  his  greatest  thought, 
which  we  take  to  be  that  there  is  a  rela 
tion  between  the  slightest  thing  in  crea 
tion  and  the  infinite  Creator ;  and  if  that 
is  known,  all  is  known.  A  universe  that 
is  only  a  mystery,  however  beautiful  or 
awful,  can  teach  us  nothing — as  Job 
confessed;  but  the  equally  mysterious 
flower  in  the  wall,  and  the  still  more 
mysterious  being — man — can  add  light 


to  mystery,  and  even  outshine  the  stars. 
For  in  man,  whether  his  origin  be  in 
protoplasm  or  divine  fiat,  more  volume 
of  truth,  more  complexity  of  law,  more 
singleness  of  purpose,  are  to  be  found 
than  in  the  whole  universe  so  far  as  we 
can  get  at  it.  A  handful  of  earth  from 
an  ant-hill  can  tell  us  more  of  creative 
power  and  purpose  than  the  entire  solar 
system.  More  than  this — we  may  go 
beyond  the  flower  in  the  wall,  and  with 
out  an  if  say  that  in  knowing  man  one 
may  know  God  and  well-nigh  the  secret 
of  the  whole  machine — all  worlds  and 
all  beings  taken  together. 

It  is  a  vain  and  useless  undertaking 
— save  for  specific  scientific  purposes — 
to  explore  the  sidereal  universe  to  ascer 
tain  if  it  is  habitable  by  man,  and — 
finding  that  it  is  not — end  the  search 
with  a  bare  negation.  But  when  man  is 
sounded  to  the  depths  of  his  being,  and 
his  history  in  the  aeons  that  have  pro 
duced  him  is  known,  and  the  signs  that 
he  is  keyed  to  some  purpose  outside  of 
matter,  and  that  he  is  himself  conscious 
of  a  Being  who  made  him — when  all  this 
is  known,  we  are  in  a  way  to  find  out  if 
it  is  possible  or  probable  that  he  can  live 
in  other  worlds,  or  live  at  all  after  death. 
For  man  is  the  key  to  this  world ;  noth 
ing  has  meaning  until  he  appears,  when 
all  things  are  vested  with  reason  why 
they  are  and  what  they  are  for.  There 
is  but  one  explanation  of  him.  Ideal 
man  carries  with  him  our  only  concep 
tion  of  the  Creator.  The  son  of  God 
becomes  a  natural  phrase.  Humanity 
easily  turns  to  the  Father  in  terms  of 
oneness.  Life's  problems  are  solved, 
and  the  laws  of  the  Father  fit  easily  upon 
every  son  of  man.  If  we  go  on  to  specu 
late  and  ask  why  man  came  to  be,  and 
why  such  a  rapture  of  joy  springs  up 
when  the  ideal  man  appears,  our  last 
thought  is  that  the  inner  power  of  his 
creation  is  God  himself.  Creation  be 
comes  a  spiritual  process,  and  matter  is 
the  stuff  used.  Thus  we  see  the  rhythmic 
play  of  his  being — perhaps  an  eternal 
process — the  swing  away  from  himself 
in  remotest  matter  and  return  to  himself 
in  his  own  image. 

In  such  thoughts — justified  by  more 
than  guesses,  and  by  Scripture  if  read 
aright — we  find  the  springs  of  love  and 


938 


The  Outlook 


[20  August 


adoration  and  hope.  Besides  this,  the 
keenest  joy  a  true  man  can  feel  is  to 
know  his  place  in  creation  and  find  that 
he  is  embosomed  in  God  and  is  one  with 
him. 

These  thoughts  have  close  relation  to 
the  question  as  to  man's  place  in  the 
universe — discussed  by  Mr.  Wallace  in 
terms  of  physical  science,  but  without 
finding  a  sign  of  him  except  in  this 
already  well-known  part  of  it.  He 
looked  in  the  wrong  place — among  the 
stars;  it  was  too  far  off.  The  earth 
under  our  feet  and  the  soul  of  man  con 
tain  the  secret  of  human  destiny,  if  it  is 
to  be  found  anywhere.  And  it  is  so 
clear  that  it  almost  forces  belief  that  a 
process  so  explanatory  of  life  in  this 


world,  and  laying  such  hold  on  the 
Creator  of  the  universe,  must  be  re 
peated — infinitely  perhaps — in  countless 
worlds  where  the  same  conditions  exist 
as  here.  It  is  to-da)^  generally  believed 
that  evolution  is  a  universal  law ;  it  is 
the  play  of  the  universe.  Therefore  it 
is  probable  that  if  creation  is  a  divine 
process  in  God  himself,  it  is  a  universal 
process.  It  is  better  to  think  on  such  a 
question  in  harmony  with  the  profound- 
est  and  most  sacred  laws  we  know,  and 
in  positive  rather  than  in  negative  ways. 
Henee  it  may  be  true,  as  Tennyson  says  : 

"  Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun 
May  roll  with  the  dust  of  a  vanished  race." 

And  if  with  a  dead  race,  why  not  with  a 
living  one  ? 


The  Mountains 

By  Stewart  Edward  White 

Author  of  "The  Forest,"  "  The  Blazed  Trail,"  "  The  Silent  Places,"  etc. 

XVI The  Valley 


ONCE  upon  a  time  I  happened  to 
be  staying  in  a  hotel  room  which 
had  originally  been  part  of  a 
suite,  but  which  was  then  cut  off  from 
the  others  by  only  a  thin  door  through 
which  sounds  carried  clearly.  It  was 
about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
The  occupants  of  that  next  room  came 
home.  I  heard  the  door  open  and 
close.  Then  the  bed  shrieked  aloud  as 
somebody  fell  heavily  upon  it.  There 
breathed  across  the  silence  a  deep,  rest 
ful  sigh. 

"  Mary,"  said  a  man's  voice,  "  I'm 
mighty  sorry  I  didn't  join  that  Asso 
ciation  for  Artificial  Vacations.  They 
guarantee  to  get  you  just  as  tired  and 
just  as  mad  in  two  days  as  you  could  by 
yourself  in  two  weeks." 

We  thought  of  that  one  morning  as 
we  descended  the  Glacier  Point  Trail  in 
Yosemite. 

The  contrast  we  need  not  have  made 
so  sharp.  We  might  have  taken  the 
regular  wagon-road  by  way  of  Chinqua 
pin,  but  we  preferred  to  stick  to  the 
trail,  and  so  encountered  our  first  sign 
of  civilization  within  a  hundred  yards 

» Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


of  the  brink.  It,  the  sign,  was  tourists. 
They  were  male  and  female,  as  the  Lord 
had  made  them,  but  they  had  improved 
on  that  idea  since.  The  women  were 
freckled,  hatted  with  alpines,  in  which 
edelweiss — artificial.  I  think — flowered 
in  abundance ;  they  sported  severely 
plain  flannel  shirts,  bloomers  of  an 
aggressive  and  unnecessary  cut,  and 
enormous  square  boots  weighing  pounds. 
The  men  had  on  hats  just  off  the  sun- 
bonnet  effect,  pleated  Norfolk  jackets, 
bloomers  ditto  ditto  to  the  women,  stock 
ings  whose  tops  rolled  over  innumerable 
times  to  help  out  the  size  of  that  which 
they  should  have  contained,  and  also 
enormous  square  boots.  The  female 
children  they  put  in  skin-tight  blue  over 
alls.  The  male  children  they  dressed 
in  bloomers.  Why  this  should  be  I 
cannot  tell  you.  All  carried  toy  hatchets 
with  a  spike  on  one  end,  built  to  resem 
ble  the  pictures  of  alpenstocks. 

They  looked  business-like,  trod  with 
an  assured  air  of  veterans,  and  a  seem 
ing  of  experience  more  extended  than  it 
was  possible  to  pack  into  any  one  human 
life.  We  stared  at  them,  our  eyes  bulg 
ing  out.  They  painfully  and  evidently 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


939 


concealed  a  curiosity  as  to  our  pack- 
train.  We  wished  them  good- day,  in 
order  to  see  to  what  language  heaven 
had  fitted  their  extraordinary  ideas  as 
regards  raiment.  They  inquired  the 
way  to  something  or  other— I  think  Sen 
tinel  Dome.  We  had  just  arrived,  so 
we  did  not  know,  but,  in  order  to  show 
a  friendly  spirit,  we  blandly  pointed  out 
a  way.  It  may  have  led  to  Sentinel 
Dome  for  all  I  know.  They  departed 
uttering  thanks  in  human  speech. 

Now  this  particular  bunch  of  tourists 
was  evidently  staying  at  the  Glacier 
Point,  and  so  was  fresh.  But  in  the 
course  of  that  morning  we  descended 
straight  down  a  drop  of,  is  it  four  thou 
sand  feet?  The  trail  was  steep  and 
long  and  without  water.  During  the 
descent  we  passed  first  and  last  probably 
twoscore  of  tourists,  all  on  foot.  A  good 
half  of  them  were  delicate  women — 
young,  middle-aged,  a  few  gray-haired 
and  evidently  upwards  of  sixty.  There 
were  also  old  men.  and  fat  men,  and 
men  otherwise  out  of  condition.  Prob 
ably  nine  out  of  ten,  counting  in  the 
entire  outfit,  were  utterly  unaccustomed, 
when  at  home  where  grow  street-cars 
and  hansoms,  to  even  the  mildest  sort 
of  exercise.  They  had  come  into  the 
Valley,  whose  floor  is  over  four  thousand 
feet  up,  without  the  slightest  physical 
preparation  for  the  altitude.  They  had 
submitted  to  the  fatigue  of  a  long  and 
dusty  stage  journey.  And  then  they 
had  merrily  whooped  it  up  at  a  gait 
which  would. have  appalled  seasoned  old 
stagers  like  ourselves.  Those  blessed 
lunatics  seemed  positively  unhappy  un 
less  they  climbed  up  to  some  new  point 
of  view  every  day.  I  have  never  seen 
such  a  universally  tired  out,  frazzled, 
vitally  exhausted,  white-faced,  nervous 
community  in  my  life  as  I  did  during 
our  four  days'  stay  in  the  Valley.  Then 
probably  they  go  away,  and  take  a 
month  to  get  over  it,  and  have  queer 
residual  impressions  of  the  trip.  I  should 
like  to  know  what  those  impressions 
really  are. 

Not  but  that  Nature  has  done  every 
thing  in  her  power  to  oblige  them.  The 
things  I  am  about  to  say  are  heresy,  but 
I  hold  them  true. 

Yosemite  is  not  as  interesting  nor  as 


satisfying  to  me  as  some  of  the  other 
big  box  canons,  like  those  of  the  Te- 
hipite,  the  Kings  in  its  branches,  or  the 
Kaweah.  I  will  admit  that  its  water 
falls  are  better.  Otherwise  it  possesses 
no  features  which  are  not  to  be  seen  in 
its  sister  valleys.  And  there  is  this 
difference.  In  Yosemite  everything  is 
jumbled  together,  apparently  for  the 
benefit  of  the  tourist  with  a  linen  duster 
and  but  three  days'  time  at  his  disposal. 
He  can  turn  from  the  cliff-headland  to 
the  dome,  from  the  dome  to  the  half 
dome,  to  the  glacier  formation,  the  gran 
ite  slide,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  with 
hardly  the  necessity  of  stirring  his  feet. 
Nature  has  put  samples  of  all  her  works 
here  within  reach  of  his  cataloguing 
vision.  Everything  is  crowded  in  to 
gether,  like  a  row  of  houses  in  forty-foot 
lots.  The  mere  things  themselves  are 
here  in  profusion  and  wonder,  but  the 
appropriate  spacing,  the  approach,  the 
surrounding  of  subordinate  detail  which 
should  lead  in  artistic  gradation  to  the 
supreme  feature — these  things,  which 
are  a  real  and  essential  part  of  aesthetic 
effect,  are  lacking  utterly  for  want  of 
room.  The  place  is  not  natural  scenery  ; 
it  is  a  junk-shop,  a  storehouse,  a  sample- 
room  wherein  the  elements  of  natural 
scenery  are  to  be  viewed.  It  is  not  an 
arrangement  of  effects  in  accordance 
with  the  usual  laws  of  landscape,  but  an 
abnormality,  a  freak  of  Nature. 

All  these  things  are  to  be  found  else 
where.  There  are  cliffs  which  to  the 
naked  eye  are  as  grand  as  El  Capitan ; 
domes,  half  domes,  peaks,  as  noble  as 
any  to  be  seen  in  the  Valley;  sheer 
drops  as  breath-taking  as  that  from 
Glacier  Point.  But  in  other  places  each 
of  these  is  led  up  to  appropriately,  and 
stands  the  central  and  satisfying  feature 
to  which  all  other  things  look.  Then 
you  journey  on  from  your  cliff,  or  what 
ever  it  happens  to  be,  until,  at  just  the 
right  distance,  so  that  it  gains  from  the 
presence  of  its  neighbor  without  losing 
from  its  proximity,  a  dome  or  a  pinnacle 
takes  to  itself  the  right  of  prominence. 
I  concede  the  waterfalls;  but  in  other 
respects  I  prefer  the  sister  valleys. 

That  is  not  to  say  that  one  should  not 
visit  Yosemite;  nor  that  one  will  be 
disappointed.  It  is  grand  beyond  any 


940 


The  Outlook 


[20  August 


possible  human  belief ;  and  no  one,  even 
a  nerve-frazzled  tourist,  can  gaze  on  it 
without  the  strongest  emotion.  Only  it 
is  not  so  intimately  satisfying  as  it  should 
be.  It  is  a  show.  You  do  not  take  it 
into  your  heart.  "  Whew  1"  you  cry. 
"  Isn't  that  a  wonder  1"  then,  after  a  mo 
ment,  "  Looks  just  like  the  photographs. 
Up  to  sample.  Now  let's  go." 

As  we  descended  the  trail,  we  and  the 
tourists  aroused  in  each  other  a  mutual 
interest.  One  husband  was  trying  to 
encourage  his  young  and  handsome  wife 
to  go  on.  She  was  beautifully  dressed 
for  the  part  in  a  marvelous,  becoming 
costume  of  whipcord — short  skirt,  high 
laced  elkskin  boots,  and  the  rest  of  it ; 
but  in  all  her  magnificence  she  had  sat 
down  on  the  ground,  her  back  to  the 
cliff,  her  legs  across  the  trail,  and  was 
so  tired  out  that  she  could  hardly  muster 
interest  enough  to  pull  them  in  out  of 
the  way  of  our  horses'  hoofs.  The  man 
inquired  anxiously  of  us  how  far  it  was 
to  the  top.  Now  it  was  a  long  distance 
to  the  top,  but  a  longer  to  the  bottom, 
so  we  lied  a  lie  that  I  am  sure  was  imme 
diately  forgiven  us,  and  told  them  it 
was  only  a  short  climb.  I  should  have 
offered  them  the  use  of  Bullet,  but  Bul 
let  had  come  far  enough,  and  this  was 
only  one  of  a  dozen  such  cases.  In 
marked  contrast  was  a  jolly  white-haired 
clergyman  of  the  bishop  type  who 
climbed  vigorously  and  hailed  us  with  a 
shout.  , 

The  horses  were  decidedly  unaccus 
tomed  to  any  such  sights,  and  we  some 
times  had  our  hands  full  getting  them 
by  on  the  narrow  way.  The  trail  was 
safe  enough,  but  it  did  have  an  edge, 
and  that  edge  jumped  pretty  straight 
off.  It  was  interesting  to  observe  how 
the  tourists  acted.  Some  of  them  were 
perfect  fools,  and  we  had  more  trouble 
with  theni  than  we  did  with  the  horses. 
They  could  not  seem  to  get  the  notion 
into  their  heads  that  all  we  wanted  them 
to  do  was  to  get  on  the  inside  and 
stand  still.  About  half  of  them  were 
terrified  to  death,  so  that  at  the  crucial 
moment,  just  as  a  horse  was  passing 
them,  they  had  little  fluttering  panics 
that  called  the  beast's  attention.  Most 
of  the  remainder  tried  to  be  bold  and 
help.  They  reached  out  the  hand  of 


assistance  toward  the  halter  rope  ;  the 
astonished  animal  promptly  snorted, 
tried  to  turn  around,  cannoned  against 
the  next  in  line.  Then  there  was  a 
mix-up.  Two  tall,  clean-cut,  well-bred 
looking  girls  of  our  slim  patrician  type 
offered  us  material  assistance.  They 
seemed  to  understand  horses,  and  got 
out  of  the  way  in  the  proper  manner, 
did  just  the  right  thing,  and  made  sen 
sible  suggestions.  I  offer  them  my 
homage. 

They  spoke  to  us  as  though  they  had 
penetrated  the  disguise  of  long  travel, 
and  could  see  we  were  not  necessarily 
members  of  Burt  Alvord's  gang.  This 
phase,  too,  of  our  descent  became  in-*  ?, 
creasingly  interesting  to  us,  a  species  of-j 
gauge  by  which  we  measured  the  per- 
ceptions  of  those  we  encountered.  Most 
did  not  speak  to  us  at  all.  Others 
responded  to  our  greetings  with  a  reserve 
in  which  was  more  than  a  tinge  of  dis 
trust.  Still  others  patronized  us.  A  very 
few  overlooked  our  faded  flannel  shirts, 
our  spiled  trousers,  our  floppy  old  hats 
with  their  rattlesnake  bands,  the  wear 
and  tear  of  our  equipment,  to  respond  to 
us  heartily.  Them  in  return  we  gener 
ally  perceived  to  belong  to  our  totem. 

We  found  the  floor  of  the  Valley 
well  sprinkled  with  campers.  They  had 
pitched  all  kinds  of  tents;  built  all 
kinds  of  fancy  permanent  conveniences  ; 
erected  all  kinds  of  banners  and  signs 
advertising  their  identity,  and  were  gen 
erally  having  a  nice,  easy,  healthful, 
jolly  kind  of  a  time  up  there  in  the 
mountains.  Their  outfits  they  had  either 
brought  in  with  their  own  wagons,  or 
had  had  freighted.  The  store  near  the 
bend  of  the  Merced  supplied  all  their 
needs.  It  was  truly  a  pleasant  sight  to 
see  so  many  people  enjoying  themselves, 
for  they  were  mostly  those  in  moderate 
circumstances,  to  whom  a  trip  on  tourist 
lines  would  be  impossible.  We  saw 
bakers'  and  grocers'  and  butchers' 
wagons  that  had  been  pressed  into  serv 
ice.  A  man,  his  wife,  and  little  baby, 
had  come  in  an  ordinary  buggy,  the  one 
horse  of  which,  led  by  tne  man,  carried 
the  woman  and  baby  to  the  various 
points  of  interest. 

We  reported  to  the  official  in  charge, 
were  allotted  a  camping  and  grazing 


1904] 


The   Mountains 


941 


place,  and  proceeded  to  make  ourselves 
at  home. 

During  the  next  two  days  we  rode 
comfortably  here  and  there,  and  looked 
at  things.  The  things  could  not  be 
spoiled,  but  their  effect  was  very  mate 
rially  marred  by  the  swarms  of  tourists. 
Sometimes  they  were  silly,  and  cracked 
inane  and  obvious  jokes  in  ridicule  of 
the  grandest  objects  they  had  come  so 
far  to  see  ;  sometimes  they  were  detest 
able,  and  left  their  insignificant  calling- 
cards  or  their  unimportant  names  where 
nobody  could  ever  have  any  object  in 
reading  them ;  sometimes  they  were 
pathetic  and  helpless,  and  had  to  have 
assistance ;  sometimes  they  were  amus 
ing  ;  hardly  ever  did  they  seem  entirely 
human.  I  wonder  what  there  is  about 
the  traveling  public  that  seems  so  to  set 
it  apart,  to  make  of  it  at  least  a  sub 
species  of  mankind  ? 

Among  other  things,  we  were  vastly 
interested  in  the  guides.  They  were 
typical  of  this  sort  of  thing.  Each  morn 
ing  one  of  these  men  took  a  pleasantly 
awe-stricken  band  of  tourists  out,  led 
them  around  in  the  brush  awhile,  and 
brought  them  back  in  time  for  lunch. 
They  wore  broad  hats  and  leather  bands 
and  exotic  raiment  and  fierce  expressions, 
and  looked  dark  and  mysterious  and 
extra-competent  over  the  most  trivial  of 
difficulties. 

Nothing  could  be  more  instructive 
than  to  see  two  or  three  of  these  imita 
tion  bad  men  starting  out  in  the  morning 
to  "guide  "  a  flock,  say  to  Nevada  Falls. 
The  tourists,  being  about  to  mount,  have 
outdone  themselves  in  weird  and  awe 
some  clothes — especially  the  women. 
Nine  out  of  ten  wear  their  stirrups  too 
short,  so  their  knees  are  hunched  up. 
One  guide  rides  at  the  head — great  deal 
of  silver  spur,  clanking  chain,  and  the 
rest  of  it.  Another  rides  in  the  rear. 
The  third  rides  up  and  down  the  line, 
very  gruff,  very  preoccupied,  very  care 
worn  over  the  dangers  of  the  way.  The 
cavalcade  moves.  It  proceeds  for  about 
a  mile.  There  arise  sudden  cries,  great 
but  subdued  excitement.  The  leader 
stops,  raising  a  commanding  hand. 
Guide  number  three  gallops  up.  There 
is  a  consultation.  The  cinch-strap  of 
the  brindle  shave-tail  is  taken  up  two 


inches.  A  catastrophe  has  been  averted. 
The  noble  three  look  volumes  of  relief. 
The  cavalcade  moves  again. 

Now  the  trail  rises.  It  is  a  nice,  safe, 
easy  trail.  But  to  the  tourists  it  is  made 
terrible.  The  noble  three  see  to  that. 
They  pass  more  dangers  by  the  exercise 
of  superhuman  skill  than  you  or  I  could 
discover  in  a  summer's  close  search. 
The  joke  of  the  matter  is  that  those 
forty-odd  saddle-animals  have  been  over 
that  trail  so  many  times  that  one  would 
have  difficulty  in  heading  them  off  from 
it  once  they  got  started. 

Very  much  the  same  criticism  would 
hold  as  to  the  popular  notion  of  the 
Yosemite  stage-drivers.  They  drive 
well,  and  seem  efficient  men.  But  their 
wonderful  reputation  would  have  to  be 
upheld  on  rougher  roads  than  those  into 
the  Valley.  The  tourist  is,  of  course, 
encouraged  to  believe  that  he  is  doing 
the  hair-breadth  escape ;  but  in  reality, 
as  mountain  travel  goes,  the  Yosemite 
stage-road  is  very  mild. 

This  that  I  have  been  saying,  is  not 
by  way  of  depreciation.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  Valley  is  wonderful 
enough  to  stand  by  itself  in  men's  appre 
ciation  without  the  unreality  of  sickly 
sentimentalism  in  regard  to  imaginary 
dangers,  or  the  histrionics  of  playing 
wilderness  where  no  wilderness  exists. 

As  we  went  out,  this  time  by  the 
Chinquapin  wagon-road,  we  met  one 
stage-load  after  another  of  tourists  com 
ing  in.  They  had  not  yet  donned  the 
outlandish  attire  they  believe  proper  to 
the  occasion,  and  so  showed  for  what 
they  were — prosperous,  well-bred,  well- 
dressed  travelers.  In  contrast  to  their 
smartness,  the  brilliancy  of  new-painted 
stages,  the  dash  of  the  horses  maintained 
by  the  Yosemite  Stage  Company,  our 
own  dusty,  travel- worn  outfit  of  moun 
tain  ponies,  our  own  rough  clothes, 
patched  and  faded,  our  sheath-knives 
and  firearms,  seemed  out  of  place  and 
curious,  as  though  a  knight  in  mediaeval 
armor  were  to  ride  down  Broadway. 

I  do  not  know  how  many  stages  there 
were.  We  turned  our  pack-horses  out 
for  them  all,  dashing  back  and  forth 
along  the  line,  coercing  the  diabolical 
Dinkey.  The  road  was  too  smooth. 
There  were  no  obstructions  to  surmount ; 


942 


The  Outlook 


[20  August 


no  dangers  to  avert ;  no  difficulties  to 
avoid.  We  could  not  get  into  trouble, 
but  proceeded  as  on  a  county  turnpike. 
Too  tame,  too  civilized,  too  represent 
ative  of  the  tourist  element,  it  ended  by 
getting  on  our  nerves.  The  wilderness 
seemed  to  have  left  us  forever.  Never 
would  we  get  back  to  our  own  again. 
After  a  long  time,  Wes,  leading,  turned 
into  our  old  trail  branching  off  to  the 
high  country.  Hardly  had  we  traveled 


a  half-mile  before  we  heard  from  the 
advance  guard  a  crash  and  a  shout. 

"  What  is  it,  Wes  ?"  we  yelled.     . 

In  a  moment  the  reply  came — 

"  Lily's  fallen  down  again — thank 
heaven  1" 

We  understood  what  he  meant.  By 
this  we  knew  that  the  tourist  zone  was 
crossed,  that  we  had  left  the  show  coun 
try  for  good  and  all,  and  were  once  more 
in  the  open. 


The   Smallest  American   Possession1 

By  George  Kennan 


FIVE  days  out  from  Honolulu,  we 
caught  sight  of  the  small,  reef- 
encircled  sand-dune  which  is 
known,  on  account  of  its  geographical 
position,  as  "  Midway  " — the  smallest 
bit  of  land,  perhaps,  over  which  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  float,  and  certainly  the  most 
dreary  and  desolate  place  inhabited  by 
man  in  all  the  broad  Pacific.  Before 
the  acquisition  of  the  Philippines,  not 
one  American  in  ten  thousand,  probably, 
was  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  United 
States  owned  territory  in  the  middle  of 
the  Pacific  Ocean,  nearly  thirty-five  hun 
dred  miles  west  of  San  Francisco ;  and 
yet  the  little  atoll  then  known  as  "Brooks 
Island "  had  belonged  to  us  for  nearly 
forty  years.  It  had  no  inhabitants,  and 
therefore  required  no  colonial  adminis 
tration,  but  it  was,  nevertheless,  the 
first  colonial  possession  that  we  acquired 
in  the  Pacific,  away  from  the  mainland, 
and  for  many  years  it  was  our  remotest 
outpost  in  the  direction  of  the  Orient. 
Captain  N.  C.  Brooks,  of  the  American 
ship  Gambia,  discovered  it  in  1859,  and 
although  it  was  a  mere  sand-heap,  less 
than  two  miles  across,  and  seemed  to  be 
absolutely  worthless,  he  prudently  an 
nexed  it,  in  the  name  of  the  United 
States,  and  took  such  formal  steps  as 
were  necessary  to  establish  a  national 
claim  to  it. 

For  the  next  thirty  years  it  remained 
uninhabited   and  almost  unvisited ;  but 

1  Mr.  Kennan's  Journey  to  Japan  as  special  repre 
sentative  of  The  Outlook  was  made  as  a  guest  on  the 
United  States  Government  transport  BuFord,  a  slow 
but  decidedly  interesting  method  of  traveling.  This 
account  of  Midway  Island  is  from  a  letter  describing 
the  trans-Pacific  voyage.— THE  EDITORS, 


in  1867  it  was  examined  by  Captain 
Reynolds,  of  the  United  States  cruiser 
Lackawanna,  and  in  1888,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  a  Norwegian  ship  was  wrecked 
on  it,  and  her  survivors  lived  there  for 
a  period  of  about  two  years,  gaining  a 
scanty  subsistence  by  collecting  birds' 
eggs  and  catching  fish.  They  were 
finally  seen  and  taken  off  by  the  crew  of 
a  Japanese  merchant  vessel  who  were 
cruising  about  in  that  part  of  the  Pacific 
in  search  of  guano  deposits.  Before 
their  rescue,  they  had  drawn  up  and 
buried  in  a  bottle  a  brief  record  of  their 
experience,  with  directions  for  obtaining 
brackish  but  drinkable  water,  and  the 
names  of  three  or  four  castaways  who 
had  already  perished  from  hardship  and 
exposure.  This  record  was  written, 
doubtless,  at  a  time  when  they  had  no 
expectation  of  ever  being  found.  It 
was  discovered,  long  afterward,  by  the 
officers  of  one  of  our  naval  vessels  who 
were  engaged  in  making  a  survey  of  the 
little  atoll  and  running  a  line  of  sound 
ings  around  its  barrier-reef. 

Shortly  before  the  annexation  of  the 
Hawaiian  group,  the  Pacific  Mail  Steam 
ship  Company  caused  an  examination 
to  be  made  of  the  island  with  a  view  to 
its  possible  utilization  as  a  coaling  sta 
tion  ;  but  this  idea  was  finally  abandoned 
on  account  of  the  difficulty  of  taking 
lighters  in  and  out  through  the  narrow, 
rock-obstructed  channel  which  breaks 
the  circle  of  the  reef  on  the  western 
side,  and  affords  the  only  means  of  ac 
cess  to  the  shallow  water  of  the  lagoon. 
When  the  trans-Pagific  cable  was  pro- 


1904] 


Roman  Codgers  and  Solitaries 


993 


Nerone,  Galli  had  ridden  by  turn  in  all 
the  carriages. 

"  With  your  help,  my  friend,"  he  said 
to  the  cabman,  "  I  will  climb  to  the  top 
of  the  tomb.  If  you  will  listen,  I  will 
tell  you  some  things  about  the  great 
Nero  you  never  heard  before.  He  was, 
after  all,  an  artist :  the  historians  have 
been  too  hard  upon  him,  as  we  artists 
must  not  forget/' 

Galli  made  a  long  speech  glorifying 
Nero ;  perhaps  he  set  the  present  fashion 
for  the  whitewashing  of  Caesars  gener 
ally — fashions  often  grow  out  of  much 
less.  The  cabmen  squatted  round  on 
their  hunkers,  smoked  their  pipes,  and 
listened,  for  the  enlightenment  of  future 
forestieri,  till  Galli  scrambled  down  from 
the  rostrum,  jumped  into  the  first  cab, 
crying,  "  Andiamo!  To  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna  as  we  carne." 

At  the  Cafe'  Greco  that  evening, 
Galli,  penniless,  but  proud  ot  his  adven 
ture,  borrowed  of  Signorino  Jacca  twenty 
centessimi  (four  cents)  to  buy  a  piece  of 
bread  and  a  few  pickled  gherkins,  which, 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  paper,  he  munched 
contentedly  for  his  supper. 

Remembering  Galli's  talent  for  like 
nesses,  J.  persuaded  a  friend  to  sit  to 
him  for  her  portrait.  When  they  arrived 
at  the  studio  for  the  first  sitting,  the 
room  was  so  littered  with  rubbish  there 
was  hardly  space  to  turn  round.  Tiers 
of  vile-smelling  old  petroleum-cases  were 
piled  against  the  wall. 

"  What  on  earth  have  you  got  in  those 
boxes,  Galli  ?" 

"  They  contain  my  invention." 

"  May  one  ask  its  nature  ?" 

"  Altro  !  it  is  the  model  of  a  bridge  to 
cross  the  Atlantic  from  Italy  to  the 
United  States." 

It  was  a  cold  day.  To  warm  the  room 
for  his  sitter,  Galli  had  picked  up  a  few 
bits  of  charcoal,  which  smoldered  in  a 
frying-pan  without  a  handle  (his  only 
stove),  in  the  middle  of  the  studio. 
While  Galli  was  finding  a  chair  for  the 
lady,  J.  discovered  seven  rat-traps,  each 
inhabited  by  a  large  family  of  mice. 

"  They  disturbed  me  so  much  scrab 
bling  about  and  gnawing  things,"  Galli 
explained,  "that  I  was  obliged  to  catch 
them." 

"  If  the  mice  disturb  you,  why  keep 


them  ?"  said  the  practical  American  girl. 
"  You  have  not  the  heart  to  kill  them  ? 
Tell  the  janitor  to  put  the  traps  in  a  pail 
of  water  ;  it  will  be  over  in  a  minute." 

"  Drown  them — my  only  companions  ? 
See  their  beautiful  little  ears  veined  like 
the  petals  of  a  flower,  their  bright  eyes, 
their  dear  little  feet.  They-  know  me ; 
they  depend  upon  me  for  their  food." 

He  took  half  a  roll  from  his  pocket 
and  crumbled  it  into  one  of  the  traps. 

"  Show  us  what  you  have  been  paint 
ing  lately,  Signer  Galli."  The  old  man 
moved  his  easel  into  the  light. 

"  This  is  my  latest  picture." 

J.  says  that  American  girl  showed 
rare  breeding  ;  she  neither  laughed  nor 
cried  at  the  thing  Galli  uncovered.  If  it 
was  not  a  picture,  it  was  the  work  of  a  man 
of  genius.  The  divine  spark  had  kindled 
at  a  moment  when  no  tools  were  at  hand. 
His  credit  on  that  almost  inexhaustible 
fund,  the  generosity  of  his  brother  art 
ists,  had  long  been  overdrawn.  His 
friends  were  tired  of  supplying  canvas, 
paints,  brushes.  Galli,  lacking  every 
thing,  possessed  only  of  the  idea,  could 
not  rest  till  it  was  expressed.  He  had 
cut  off  the  tail  of  his  gray  flannel  shirt, 
stretched  it  for  a  canvas,  found  a  piece 
of  old  blue  cardboard,  pasted  it  on  for 
the  sky,  dried  lettuce-leaves  and  applied 
them  for  the  middle  distance,  used  for 
the  detail  of  the  foreground  bits  of  dried 
watermelon-rind  and  other  such  rubbish. 
The  "  picture  "  was  a  thing  to  draw  tears 
from  a  stone  1 

The  rumor  of  the  invention  in  the 
petroleum-boxes  suggested  to  some  of 
the  young  artists  a  plan  by  which  fresh 
interest  might  be  aroused  for  Galli's 
benefit.  They  asked  him  to  prepare  a 
lecture  explaining  the  theory  of  his 
bridge.  Tickets  were  sold,  and  quite  a 
large  audience  gathered  at  the  Artists' 
Club  to  hear  him.  When  he  appeared, 
some  of  the  more  boisterous  spirits  began 
to  guy  him  ;  this  nettled  the  old  fel 
low. 

"  You  perhaps  think  this  invention  of 
mine  an  impossibility,"  he  began.  "  To 
show  you  how  simple  it  is  to  get  to 
America  without  going  on  one  of  those 
abominable  steamers,  I  will  explain  to 
you  how  to  get  to  the  moon.  You  all 
know  that  the  moon  is  una  femina  "  (a 


994 


The  Outlook 


[27  August 


female).  "  Well,  all  females  are  devoured 
by  curiosity.  Only  let  all  the  people 
upon  the  earth  assemble  together  in  one 
place,  and  the  moon  will  observe  that 
something  out  of  the  common  is  going 
on  down  here  ;  she  will  approach  nearer 
and  nearer  to  see  what  it  is  all  about, 
until  she  gets  so  near  that  all  we  shall 
have  to  do  is  to  jump  over  on  her,  and 
then  she  will  not  be  able  to  get  away." 

Galli's  last  commission  was  to  deco 
rate  a  cheap  cafe.  Villegas  says  that  it 
was  a  wonderful  piece  of  work,  full  of 
power  and  originality.  Not  long  after 
it  was  finished,  some  smug  Neapolitan 
painter,  one  of  those  poor  craftsmen  who 


have  cheapened  the  name  of  Italian 
art,  persuaded  the  proprietor  to  let 
him  paint  out  Galli's  work  and  redeco 
rate  the  cafe'  with  his  own  vulgar  trash. 
This  broke  the  old  man's  heart;  soon 
after  he  was  found  dead  in  his  studio, 
lying  between  two  chairs.  It  was  inevi 
table  that  he  should  come  to  some  such 
end,  and  a  thousand  times  better  for  him 
to  drop  in  harness  than  to  wear  out 
the  years  in  idleness.  Unlike  my  friend 
the  newsboy- rumseller- grandfather- of  - 
princes,  his  only  joy  was  in  labor,  in 
striving  to  express  to  others  the  beauty 
that  possessed  his  soul.  Is  it  not  by 
this  sign  that  the  elect  may  be  known  ? 

Palazzo  Kusticucci,  Rome. 


The   Mountains1 

By  Stewart  Edward  White 

Author  of  "  The  Forest,"  "  The  Blazed  Trail,"  "  The  Silent  Places,"  etc. 

XVII The  Main  Crest 


THE  traveler  in  the  High  Sierras 
generally  keeps  to  the  west  of 
the  main  crest.  Sometimes  he 
approaches  fairly  to  the  foot  of  the  last 
slope  ;  sometimes  he  angles  away  and 
away  even  down  to  what  finally  seems 
to  him  a  lower  country — to  the  pine 
mountains  of  only  five  or  six  thousand 
feet.  But  always  to  the  left  or  right  of 
him,  according  to  whether  he  travels 
south  or  north,  runs  the  rampart  of  the 
system,  sometimes  glittering  with  snow, 
sometimes  formidable  and  rugged  with 
splinters  and  spires  of  granite.  He 
crosses  spurs  and  tributary  ranges  as 
high,  as  rugged,  as  snow-clad  as  these. 
They  do  not  quite  satisfy  him.  Over 
beyond  he  thinks  he  ought  to  see  some 
thing  great — some  wide  outlook,  some 
space  bluer  than  his  trail  can  offer  him. 
One  day  or  another  he  clamps  his  decis 
ion,  and  so  turns  aside  for  the  simple 
and  only  purpose  of  standing  on  the  top 
of  the  world. 

We  were  bitten  by  that  idea  while 
crossing  the  Granite  Basin.  The  latter 
is  some  ten  thousand  feet  in  the  air,  a 
cup  of  rock  five  or  six  miles  across,  sur- 

1  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


rounded  by  mountains  much  higher  than 
itself.  That  would  have  been  sufficient 
for  most  moods,  but,  resting  on  the  edge 
of  a  pass  ten  thousand  six  hundred  feet 
high,  we  concluded  that  we  surely  would 
have  to  look  over  into  Nevada. 

We  got  out  the  map.  It  became 
evident,  after  a  little  study,  that  by 
descending  six  thousand  feet  into  a  box 
canon,  proceeding  in  it  a  few  miles,  and 
promptly  climbing  out  again,  by  climbing 
steadily  up  the  long,  narrow  course  of 
another  box  canon  for  about  a  day  and 
a  half's  journey,  and  then  climbing  out 
of  that  to  a  high  ridge  country  with  little 
flat  valleys,  we  would  come  to  a  wide 
lake  in  a  meadow  eleven  thousand  feet 
up.  There  we  could  camp.  The  moun 
tain  opposite  was  thirteen  thousand  three 
hundred  and  twenty  feet,  so  the  climb 
from  the  lake  became  merely  a  matter 
of  computation..  This,  we  figured,  would 
take  us  just  a  week,  which  may  seem  a 
considerable  time  to  sacrifice  to  the 
gratification  of  a  whim.  But  such  a 
glorious  whim  1 

We  descended  the  great  box  canon, 
and  scaled  its  upper  end,  following  near 
the  voices  of  a  cascade.  Cliffs  thousands 


1904] 


The   Mountains 


995 


of  feet  high  hemmed  us  in.  At  the  very 
top  of  them  strange  crags  leaned  out 
looking  down  on  us  in  the  abyss.  From 
a  projection  a  colossal  sphinx  gazed 
solemnly  across  at  a  dome  as  smooth 
and  symmetrical  as,  but  vastly  larger 
than,  St.  Peter's  at  Rome. 

The  trail  labored  up  to  the  brink  of 
the  cascade.  At  once  we  entered  a  long  nar 
row  aisle  between  regular  palisaded  cliffs. 

The  formation  was  exceedingly  regular. 
At  the  top  the  precipice  fell  sheer  for  a 
thousand  feet  or  so  ;  then  the  steep  slant 
of  the  debris,  like  buttresses,  down 
almost  to  the  bed  of  the  river.  The  lower 
parts  of  the  buttresses  were  clothed  with 
heavy  chaparral,- which,  nearer  moisture, 
developed  into  cottonwoods,  alders,  tan 
gled  vines,  flowers,  rank  grasses.  And 
away  on  the  very  edge  of  the  cliffs,  close 
under  the  sky,  were  pines,  belittled  by 
distance,  solemn  and  aloof,  like  Indian 
warriors  wrapped  in  their  blankets  watch 
ing  from  an  eminence  the  passage  of  a 
hostile  force. 

We  caught  rainbow  trout  in  the  dash 
ing  white  torrent  of  the  river.  We  fol 
lowed  the  trail  through  delicious  thickets 
redolent  with  perfume ;  over  the  roughest 
granite  slides,  along  still,  dark  aisles  of 
forest  groves,  between  the  clefts  of  boul 
ders  so  monstrous  as  almost  to  seem 
an  insult  to  credulity.  Among  the 
chaparral,  on  the  slope  of  the  buttress 
across  the  river,  we  made  out  a  bear 
feeding.  Wes  and  I  sat  ten  minutes 
waiting  for  him  to  show  sufficiently  for 
a  chance.  Then  we  took  a  shot  at  about 
four  hundred  yards,  and  hit  him  some 
where  so  he  angled  down  the  hill  furi 
ously.  We  left  the  Tenderfoot  to  watch 
that  he  did  not  come  out  of  the  big 
thicket  of  the  river  bottom  where  last 
we  had  seen  him,  while  we  scrambled 
upstream  nearly  a  mile  looking  for  a  way 
across.  Then  we  trailed  him  by  the 
blood,  each  step  one  of  suspense,  until 
we  fairly  had  to  crawl  in  after  him; 
and  shot  him  five  times  more,  three  in 
the  head,  before  he  gave  up  not  six  feet 
from  us;  and  shouted  gloriously  and 
skinned  that  bear.  But  the  meat  was 
badly  bloodshot,  for  there  were  three 
bullets  in  the  head,  two  in  the  chest  and 
shoulders,  one  through  the  paunch,  and 
one  in  the  hind  quarters. 


Since  we  were  much  in  want  of  meat, 
this  grieved  us.  But  that  noon,  while 
we  ate,  the  horses  ran  down  toward  us, 
and  wheeled,  as  though  in  cavalry  forma 
tion,  looking  toward  the  hill  and  snort 
ing.  So  I  put  down  my  tin  plate  gently, 
and  took  up  my  rifle,  and  without  rising 
shot  that  bear  through  the  back  of  the 
neck.  We  took  his  skin,  and  also  his 
hind  quarters,  and  went  on. 

By  the  third  day  from  Granite  Basin 
we  reached  the  end  of  the  long,  narrow 
canon  with  the  high  cliffs  and  the  dark 
pine-trees  and  the  very  blue  sky.  There 
fore  we  turned  sharp  to  the  left  and 
climbed  laboriously  until  we  had  come 
up  into  the  land  of  big  boulders,  strange 
spare  twisted  little  trees,  and  the  singing 
of  the  great  wind. 

The  country  here  was  mainly  of  gran 
ite.  It  outcropped  in  dikes,  it  slid  down 
the  slopes  in  aprons,  it  strewed  the  pros 
pect  in  boulders  and  blocks,  it  seamed 
the  hollows  with  knife-ridges.  Soil  gave 
the  impression  of  having  been  laid  on 
top  ;  you  divined  the  granite  beneath  it, 
and  not  so  very  far  beneath  it.  either. 
A  fine  hair-grass  grew  close  to  this  soil, 
as  though  to  produce  as  many  blades  as 
possible  in  the  limited  area. 

But  strangest  of  all  were  the  little 
thick  twisted  trees  with  the  rich  shaded 
umber  color  of  their  trunks.  They 
occurred  rarely,  but  still  in  sufficient 
regularity  to  lend  the  impression  of 
a  scattered  grove-cohesiveness.  Their 
limbs  were  sturdy  and  reaching  fantas 
tically.  On  each  trunk  the  colors  ran  in 
streaks,  patches,  and  gradations  from  a 
sulphur  yellow,  through  browns  and  red- 
orange,  to  a  rich  red-umber.  They  were 
like  the  earth-dwarfs  of  German  legend, 
come  out  to  view  the  roof  of  their  work 
shop  in  the  interior  of  the  hill ;  or,  more 
subtly,  like  some  of  the  more  fantastic 
engravings  of  Gustave  Dore. 

We  camped  that  night  at  a  lake  whose 
banks  were  pebbled  in  the  manner  of  an 
artificial  pond,  and  whose  setting  was  a 
thin  meadow  of  the  fine  hair-grass,  for 
the  grazing  of  which  the  horses  had  to 
bare  their  teeth.  All  about,  the  granite 
mountains  rose/  The  timber-line,  even 
of  the  rare  shrub-like  gnome-trees,  ceased 
here.  Above  us  was  nothing  whatever 
but  granite  rock,  snow,  and  the  sky. 


996 


The  Outlook 


[27  August 


It  was  just  before  dusk,  and  in  the 
lake  the  fish  were  jumping  eagerly. 
They  took  the  fly  well,  and  before  the 
fire  was  alight  we  had  caught  three  for 
supper.  When  I  say  we  caught  but 
three,  you  will  understand  that  they  were 
of  good  size.  Firewood  was  scarce,  but 
we  dragged  in  enough  by  means  of  Old 
Slob  and  a  riata  to  build  us  a  good  fire. 
And  we  needed  it,  for  the  cold  descended 
on  us  with  the  sharpness  and  vigor  of 
eleven  thousand  feet. 

For  such  an  altitude  the  spot  was 
ideal.  The  lake  just  below  us  was  full 
of  fish.  A  little  stream  ran  from  it  by 
our  very  elbows.  The  slight  elevation 
was  level,  and  covered  with  enough  soil 
to  offer  a  fairly  good  substructure  for 
our  beds.  The  flat  in  which  was  the 
lake  reached  on  up  narrower  and  nar 
rower  to  the  foot  of  the  last  slope,  fur 
nishing  for  the  horses  an  admirable 
natural  corral  about  a  mile  long.  And 
the  view  was  magnificent. 

First  of  all  there  were  the  mountains 
above  us,  towering  grandly  serene  against 
the  sky  of  morning ;  then  all  about  us 
the  tumultuous  slabs  and  boulders  and 
blocks  of  granite  among  which  dare-devil 
and  hardy  little  trees  clung  to  a  footing 
as  though  in  defiance  of  some  great  force 
exerted  against  them ;  then  below  us  a 
sheer  drop,  into  which  our  brook  plunged, 
with  its  suggestion  of  depths ;  and  finally 
beyond  those  depths  the  giant  peaks  of 
the  highest  Sierras  rising  lofty  as  the 
sky,  shrouded  in  a  calm  and  stately 
peace. 

Next  day  the  Tenderfoot  and  I  climbed 
to  the  top.  Wes  decided  at  the  last 
minute  that  he  hadn't  lost  any  moun 
tains,  and  would  prefer  to  fish. 

The  ascent  was  accompanied  by  much 
breathlessness  and  a  heavy  pounding  of 
our  hearts,  so  that  we  were  forced  to 
stop  every  twenty  feet  to  recover  our 
physical  balance.  Each  step  upward 
dragged  at  our  feet  like  a  leaden  weight. 
Yet  once  we  were  on  the  level,  or  once 
we  ceased  our  very  real  exertions  for  a 
second  or  so,  the  difficulty  left  us,  and 
we  breathed  as  easily  as  in  the  lower 
altitudes. 

The  air  itself  was  of  a  quality  impos 
sible  to  describe  to  you  unless  you  have 
traveled  in  the  high  countries.  I  know 


it  is  trite  to  say  that  it  had  the  exhila 
ration  of  wine,  yet  I  can  find  no  better 
simile.  We  shouted  and  whooped  and 
breathed  deep  and  wanted  to  do  things. 

The  immediate  surroundings  of  that 
mountain  peak  were  absolutely  barren 
and  absolutely  still.  How  it  was  accom 
plished  so  high  up  I  do  not  know,  but 
the  entire  structure  on  which  we  moved — 
I  cannot  say  walked — was  composed  of 
huge  granite  slabs.  Sometimes  these 
were  laid  side  by  side  like  exaggerated 
paving  flags ;  but  oftener  they  were  up 
ended,  piled  in  a  confusion  over  which 
we  had  precariously  to  scramble.  And 
the  silence.  It  was  so  still  that  the  very 
ringing  in  our  ears  came  to  a  prominence 
absurd  and  almost  terrifying.  The  wind 
swept  by  noiseless,  because  it  had  noth 
ing  movable  to  startle  into  noise.  The 
solid  eternal  granite  lay  heavy  in  its 
statics  across  the  possibility  of  even  a 
whisper.  The  blue  vault  of  heaven 
seemed  emptied  of  sound. 

But  the  wind  did  stream  by  unceas 
ingly,  weird  in  the  unaccustomedness  of 
its  silence.  And  the  sky  was  blue  as  a 
turquoise,  and  the  sun  burned  fiercely, 
and  the  air  was  cold  as  the  water  of  a 
mountain  spring. 

We  stretched  ourselves  behind  a  slab 
of  granite,  and  ate  the  luncheon  we  had 
brought — cold  venison  steak  and  bread. 
By  and  by  a  marvelous  thing  happened. 
A  flash  of  wings  sparkled  in  the  air,  a 
brave  little  voice  challenged  us  cheerily, 
a  pert  tiny  rock-wren  flirted  his  tail  and 
darted  his  wings  and  wanted  to  know 
what  we  were  thinking  of  anyway  to 
enter  his  especial  territory.  And  shortly 
from  nowhere  appeared  two  Canada  jays, 
silent  as  the  wind  itself,  hoping  for  a 
share  in  our  meal.  Then  the  Tender 
foot  discovered  in  a  niche  some  strange, 
hardy  alpine  flowers.  So  we  established 
a  connection,  through  these  wondrous 
brave  children  of  the  great  mother,  with 
the  world  of  living  things. 

After  we  had  eaten,  which  was  the 
very  first  thing  we  did,  we  walked  to  the 
edge  of  the.,  main  crest  and  looked  over. 
That  edge  went  straight  down.  I  do  not 
know  how  far,  except  that  even  in  con 
templation  we  entirely  lost  our  breaths, 
before  we  had  fallen  half-way  to  the 
bottom.  Then  intervened  a  ledge,  and 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


in  the  ledge  was  a  round  glacier  lake  of 
the  very  deepest  and  richest  ultramarine 
you  can  find  among  your  paint-tubes, 
and  on  the  lake  floated  cakes  of  dazzling 
white  ice.  That  was  enough  for  the 
moment. 

Next  we  leaped  at  one  bound  direct 
down  to  some  brown  hazy  liquid  shot 
with  the  tenderest  filaments  of  white. 
After  analysis  we  discovered  the  hazy 
brown  liquid  to  be  the  earth  of  the 
plains,  and  the  filaments  of  white  to  be 
roads.  Thus  instructed  we  made  out 
specks  which  were  towns.  That  was  all. 
The  rest  was  too  insignificant  to  classify 
without  the  aid  of  a  microscope. 

And  afterwards,  across  those  plains, 
oh,  many,  many  leagues,  were  the  Inyo 
and  Panamit  mountains,  and  beyond 
them  Nevada  and  Arizona,  and  blue 
mountains,  and  bluer,  and  still  bluer 
rising,  rising,  rising  higher  and  higher 
until  at  the  level  of  the  eye  they  blended 
with  the  heavens  and  were  lost  some 
where  away  out  beyond  the  edge  of  the 
world. 

We  said  nothing,  but  looked  for  a 
long  time.  Then  we  turned  inland  to 
the  wonderful  great  titans  of  mountains 
clear-cut  in  the  crystalline  air.  Never 
was  such  air.  Crystalline  is  the  only 
word  which  will  describe  it,  for  almost 
it  seemed  that  it  would  ring  clearly 
when  struck,  so  sparkling  and  delicate 
and  fragile  was  it.  The  crags  and  fis 
sures  across  the  way — two  miles  across 
the  way — were  revealed  through  it  as 
through  some  medium  whose  transpar 
ence  was  absolute.  They  challenged 
the  eye,  stereoscopic  in  their  relief. 
Were  it  not  for  the  belittling  effects  of 
the  distance,  we  felt  that  we  might 
count  the  frost  seams  or  the  glacial 
scorings  on  every  granite  apron.  Far 
below  we  saw  the  irregular  outline  of 
our  lake.  It  looked  like  a  pond  a  few 
hundred  feet  down.  Then  we  made  out 
a  pin-point  of  white  moving  leisurely  near 
its  border.  After  a  while  we  realized 
that  the  pin-point  of  white  was  one  of 
our  pack-horses,  and  immediately  the 
flat  little  scene  shot  backwards  as  though 
moved  from  behind,  and  acknowledged 
its  due  number  of  miles.  The  minia 
ture  crags  at  its  back  became  gigantic ; 
the  peaks  beyond  grew  thousands  of 


,4eub  aiofed  teu'( 

feet  in  the  establishment  of  a  proportion 
which  the  lack  of  "  atmosphere "  had 
denied.  We  never  succeeded  in  getting 
adequate  photographs.  As  well  take 
pictures  of  any  eroded  little  arroyo  or 
granite  canon.  Relative  sizes  do  not 
exist,  unless  pointed  out. 

"  See  that  speck  there  ?"  we  explain. 
"  That's  a  big  pine-tree.  So  by  that  you 
can  see  how  tremendous  those  cliffs 
really  are." 

And  our  guest  looks  incredulously  at 
the  speck. 

There  was  snow,  of  course,  lying  cold 
in  the  hot  sun.  This  phenomenon 
always  impresses  a  man  when  first  he 
sees  it.  Often  I  have  ridden  with  my 
sleeves  rolled  up  and  the  front  of  my 
shirt  open,  over  drifts  whose  edges,  even, 
dripped  no  water.  The  direct  rays  seem 
to  have  absolutely  no  effect.  A  scien 
tific  explanation  I  have  never  heard 
expressed ;  but  I  suppose  the  cold 
nights  freeze  the  drifts  and  pack  them 
so  hard  that  the  short  noon  heat  can 
not  penetrate  their  density.  I  may  be 
quite  wrong  as  to  my  reason,  but  I  am 
entirely  correct  as  to  my  fact. 

Another  curious  thing  is  that  we  met 
our  mosquitoes  only  rarely  below  the 
snow-line.  The  camping  in  the  Sierras 
is  ideal  for  lack  of  these  pests.  They 
never  bite  hard  nor  stay  long  even  when 
found.  But  just  as  sure  as  we  approached 
snow,  then  we  renewed  acquaintance 
with  our  old  friends  of  the  north  woods. 
It  is  analogous  to  the  fact  that  the  farther 
north  you  go  into  the  fur  countries,  the 
more  abundant  they  become. 

By  and  by  it  was  time  to  descend. 
The  camp  lay  directly  below  us.  We 
decided  to  go  to  it  straight,  and  so 
stepped  off  on  an  impossibly  steep  slope 
covered,  not  with  the  great  boulders  and 
granite  blocks,  but  with  a  fine  loose 
shale.  At  every  stride  we  stepped  ten 
feet  and  slid  five.  It  was  gloriously 
near  to  flying.  Leaning  far  back,  our 
arms  spread  wide  to  keep  our  balance, 
spying  alertly  far  ahead  as  to  where  we 
were  going  to  land,  utterly  unable  to 
check  until  we  encountered  a  half-buried 
ledge  of  some  sort,  and  shouting  wildly 
at  every  plunge,  we  fairly  shot  down-hill. 
The  floor  of  our  valley  rose  to  us  as  the 
earth  to  a  descending  balloon,  In  three- 


998 


The  Outlook 


[27  August 


quarters  of  an  hour  we  had  reached  the 
first  flat. 

There  we  halted  to  puzzle  over  the 
trail  of  a  mountain  lion  clearly  printed 
on  the  soft  ground.  What  had  the  great 
cat  been  doing  away  up  there  above  the 
hunting  country,  above  cover,  above 
everything  that  would  appeal  to  a  well- 
regulated  cat  of  any  size  whatsoever  ? 
We  theorized  at  length,  but  gave  it  up 
finally,  and  went  on.  Then  a  familiar 
perfume  rose  to  our  nostrils.  We  plucked 


curiously  at  a  bed  of  catnip,  and  we 
wondered  whether  the  animal  had  jour 
neyed  so  far  in  order  to  enjoy  what 
is  always  such  a  treat  to  her  domestic 
sisters. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  we  reached 
camp.  We  found  Wes  contentedly  scrap 
ing  away  at  the  bear-skins. 

"Hello,"  said  he,  looking  up  with  a 
grin.  '"  Hello,  you  darn  fools  1  I've 
been  having  a  good  time.  I've  been 
fishing." 


Whistler:    The   Character1 


E 


H,  what?  Meneps?  Who's 
Meneps?"  was  the  exclamation 
flashed  out  by  Whistler  at  the 
mention  of  his  former  pupil  and  recal 
citrant  follower — the  man  who  had  dared 
to  choose  between  the  Master  and  his 
own  career.  This  same  man,  remaining 
an  admirer  of  the  great  painter  to  whom 
he  had  devoted  several  years  of  his 
early  youth,  Mortimer  Menpes,  has  writ 
ten  his  recollections  of  Whistler  as  he 
appeared  to  him  in  daily  companionship, 
and  a  gay,  pleasant  sketch  it  is.  The 
title  precludes  criticism,  though  it  may 
provoke  comparison.  Already  protests 
have  arisen  against  this  view,  quite  bi 
zarre  and  apparently  extravagant,  but 
Mr.  Menpes,  who  deprecates  exaggera 
tion,  solemnly  asserts  that  his  picture  is 
true  to  life. 

One  is  continually  tempted  to  suspect 
a  gleam  of  ridicule  in  the  mind  of  a 
writer  who  can  say  of  his  friend,  after 
describing  a  quarrel,  "  He  never  did 
anything  foolish,  such  as  attacking  a 
man  physically  stronger  than  himself,  in 
the  open — that  would  be  hopelessly  in 
artistic." 

He  would  lift  his  light  cane,  his  con 
stant  companion,  and  bring  it  down 
sharply  upon  the  shoulders  of  an  enemy 
— from  behind.  Yet  he  was  always 
dainty,  and  we  are  assured  he  never  did 
anything  brutal,  though  he  did  take  great 
men  off  their  feet  when  they  were  not 
looking,  and  thrust  them  through  plate- 
glass  windows  in  Piccadilly.  "  He  never 

1  Whistler  as  I  Knew  Htm.    By  Mortimer  Menpes. 
Illustrated.    The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York. 


treated  his  enemies  in  a  coarse  way," 
says  Mr.  Menpes. 

Whistler's  sense  of  music  was  entirely 
lacking ;  in  fact,  he  was  noticeably  de- 
centered,  as  the  opticians  say.  When 
Menpes  went  with  him  to  a  musical 
evening,  he  usually  chose  the  extreme 
corner  of  the  room,  for  to  catch  Whis 
tler's  eye  was  to  be  disgraced.  On  one 
occasion  the  painter  sat  with  his  mouth 
wide  open,  gazing  at  a  group  of  musical 
people  as  they  performed  upon  various 
instruments  as  though  he  had  been 
hypnotized,  and  muttering  to  himself, 
"Pshaw!  what's  it  all  about?"  The 
climax  was  reached  when  an  old  lady, 
an  accomplished  musician,  began  to 
sing,  accompanying  herself  on  the  piano. 
Afterwards,  being  presented,  she  asked 
Whistler  what  he  thought  of  her  singing. 
Menpes  heard  him  say,  "  Ha,  ha!  amaz 
ing!"  as  he  fled  precipitately  from  the 
room.  Half  an  hour  later  he  joined 
Menpes  in  the  studio,  saying,  "  Let  us 
cleanse  ourselves ;  let  us  print  an  etch 
ing."  By  the  way,  the  old  lady  singer 
had  a  peculiar  habit  of  carrying  bread 
and  butter  in  her  pocket,  which  might 
suggest  a  kinship  with  some  of  Alice's 
friends  in  Wonderland. 

When  Whistler  was  painting  his  famous 
portrait  of  Sarasate,  the  latter  often 
played  for  him.  This  playing  he  really 
enjoyed,  for,  as  he  said,  "  it  was  mar 
velous,  you  know,  to  see  Sarasate  handle 
his  violin,  especially  during  those  vio 
lent  parts  ;  his  bow  seemed  to  travel  up 
and  down  the  strings  so  rapidly,  I  can 
not  imagine  how  he  does  it."  It  was 


Beautifying  the  Urban    Back  Yard 


79 


accomplishments 
of  Bridget.  Along 
the  fence  grow 
cucumbers  and  to 
matoes,  this  sec 
tion  being  bor 
dered  with  lettuce, 
radishes, and  pars 
ley  ;  while  an  ob 
long  bed  in  the 
center  of  the  yard 
contains  cabbage, 
and  cabbage  with 
a  college  educa 
tion  —  cauliflower 
— beets  and  car 
rots.  The  charm 
of  the  rare  garden 
would  immensely 
increase,  more 
over,  if  owners  of 
these  little  rectan 
gular  back  yards 
co-operated  in 
making  a  central 
pleasure-ground 
for  every  one  in 
the  block.  The 
average  block  of 
homes  in  New 
York  surrounds 
a  quadrangle  of 
twenty-five  or 
thirty  embryonic 


BACK    STAIRS   COVERED   WITH   VINES 


lots,    for    the 


most 

part  indifferently  cared  for  even  as  to 
grass.  From  my  window  twenty-eight 
back  yards  to  as  many  houses  make  up 
such  a  quadrangle,  and,  though  two 


buildings  are  re 
freshed  with  vines 
clambering  to  the 
roof,  four  great 
trees  spread  their 
branches  and  sev 
eral  clumps  of 
bushes  carelessly 
distribute  them 
selves,  as  nature 
intended,  not  one 
yard  has  the 
slightest  claim  to 
the  adornment  of 
verdure.  Think 
of  the  transforma 
tion  of  this  spot, 
with  its  see-saw  of 
unsightly  fences 
removed,  and  in 
charge  of  a  com 
petent  gardener, 
to  whom  each  ten 
ant  contributes  a 
small  weekly  sum, 
who  would  carpet 
the  bare  ground 
with  green  grass, 
set  out  clusters  of 
bushes  and  bright 
flowers,  with  here 
and  there  a  rustic 
arbor  or  nook, 
thus  making  it  inviting  to  children  and 
their  elders  during  the  day,  and  possibly, 
in  the  evening,  to  servants  and  their  com 
pany,  separated  by  a  rustic  fence  from 
the  central  pleasure-ground. 


A    SIMPLE    SUMMER-HOUSE 


THE 

MOUNTAINS 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD 
WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  FOREST 

THE  BLAZED  TRAIL 

THE  SILENT  PLACES   Etc 

WITH  PICTURES  BY  FERNAND  LUNGREN 

XVIIL— The   Giant   Forest 


EVERY  one  is  familiar,  at  least  by 
reputation  and  photograph,  with 
the  Big  Trees  of  California.  All 
have  seen  pictures  of  stage-coaches  driv 
ing  in  passageways  cut  through  the 
bodies  of  the  trunks  ;  of  troops  of  cavalry 
ridden  on  the  prostrate  trees.  No  one 
but  has  heard  of  the  dancing-floor  or 
the  dinner-table  cut  from  a  single  cross- 
section  ;  and  probably  few  but  have 
seen  some  of  the  fibrous  bark  of  unbe 
lievable  thickness.  The  Mariposa,  Cal- 
.averas,  and  Santa  Cruz  groves  have 
become  household  names. 

The  public  at  large,  I  imagine — mean 
ing  by  that  you  and  me  and  our  neigh 
bors — harbor  an  idea  that  the  Big  Tree 
occurs  only  as  a  remnant,  in  scattered 
little  groves  carefully  fenced  and  piously 
visited  by  the  tourist.  What  would  we 
have  said  to  the  information  that  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  Sierras  there  grows  a 
thriving  forest  of  these  great  trees  ;  that 
it  takes  over  a  day  to  ride  throughout 
that  forest ;  and  that  it  comprises  prob 
ably  over  five  thousand  specimens  ? 

Yet  such  is  the  case.  On  the  ridges 
and  high  plateaus  north  of  the  Kaweah 

1  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 
80 


River  is  the  forest  I  describe ;  and  of 
that  forest  the  trees  grow  from  fifteen  to 
twenty-six  feet  in  diameter.  Do  you 
know  what  that  means  ?  Get  up  from 
your  chair  and  pace  off  the  room  you 
are  in.  If  it  is  a  very  big  room,  its 
longest  dimension  would  just  about  con 
tain  one  of  the  bigger  trunks.  Try  to 
imagine  a  tree  like  that. 

It  must  be  a  columnar  tree,  straight 
and  true  as  the  supports  of  a  Greek 
fagade.  The  least  deviation  from  the 
perpendicular  of  such  a  mass  would 
cause  it  to  fall.  The  limbs  are  sturdy 
like  the  arms  of  Hercules,  and  grow  out 
from  the  main  trunk  direct  instead  of 
dividing  ,and  leading  that  main  trunk  to 
themselves,  as  is  the  case  with  other 
trees.  The  column  rises  with  a  true 
taper  to  its  full  height ;  then  is  finished 
with  the  conical  effect  of  the  top  of  a 
monument.  Strangely  enough,  the  frond 
is  exceedingly  fine,  and  the  cones  small. 

When  first  you  catch  sight  of  a 
Sequoia,  it  does  not  impress  you  partic 
ularly,  except  as  a  very  fine  tree.  Its 
proportions  are  so  perfect  that  its  effect 
is  rather  to  belittle  its  neighbors  than  to 
show  in  its  true  magnitude.  Then,  grad- 


IX   THE   GIANT   FOREST 


82 


The  Outlook 


[3   September 


ually,  as  your  experience  takes  cogni 
zance  of  surroundings — the  size  of  a 
sugar-pine,  of  a  boulder,  of  a  stream 
flowing  near — the  giant  swells  and  swells 
before  your  very  vision,  until  he  seems 
at  the  last  even  greater  than  the  mere 
statistics  of  his  inches  had  led  you 
to  believe. 

Perhaps  the  most  insistent  note,  be 
sides  that  of  mere  size  and  dignity,  is 
of  absolute  stillness.  These  trees  do  not 
sway  to  the  wind ;  their  trunks  are  con 
structed  to  stand  solid.  Their  branches 
do  not  bend  and  murmur,  for  they,  too, 
are  rigid  in  fiber.  Their  fine  thread 
like  needles  may  catch  the  breeze's 
whisper,  may  draw  together  and  apart 
for  the  exchange  of  confidences  as  do 
the  leaves  of  other  trees,  but  if  so,  you 
and  I  are  too  far  below  to  distinguish 
it.  All  about  the  other  forest  growths 
may  be  rustling  and  bowing  and  singing 
with  the  voices  of  the  air ;  the  Sequoia 
stands  in  the  hush  of  an  absolute  calm. 
It  is  as  though  he  dreamed,  too  wrapt 
in  still  great  thoughts  of  his  youth,  when 
the  earth  itself  was  young,  to  share  the 
worldlier  joys  of  his  neighbor,  to  be 
aware  of  them,  even  himself  to  breathe 
deeply.  You  feel  in  the  presence  of 
these  trees  as  you  would  feel  in  the 
presence  of  a  kindly  and  benignant  sage, 
too  occupied  with  larger  things  to  enter 
fully  into  your  little  affairs,  but  well  dis 
posed  in  the  wisdom  of  clear  spiritual 
insight. 

This  combination  of  dignity,  immobil 
ity,  and  a  certain  serene  detachment  has 
on  me  very  much  the  same  effect  as 
does  a  mountain  against  the  sky.  It  is 
quite  unlike  the  impression  made  by  any 
other  tree,  however  large,  and  is  lovable. 

We  entered  the  Giant  Forest  by  a 
trail  that  climbed.  Always  we  entered 
desirable  places  by  trails  that  climbed 
or  dropped.  Our  access  to  paradise 
was  never  easy.  About  half-way  up  we 
met  five  pack-mules  and  two  men  com 
ing  down.  For  some  reason,  unknown, 


I  suspect,  even  to  the  god  of  chance, 
our  animals  behaved  themselves,  and 
walked  straight  ahead  in  a  beautiful 
dignity,  while  those  weak-minded  mules 
scattered  and  bucked  and  scraped  under 
trees  and  dragged  back  on  their  halters 
when  caught.  The  two  men  cast  on  us 
malevolent  glances  as  often  as  they  were 
able,  but  spent  most  of  their  time  swear 
ing  and  running  about.  We  helped 
them  once  or  twice  by  heading  off,  but 
were  too  thankfully  engaged  in  treading 
lightly  over  our  own  phenomenal  peace 
to  pay  much  attention.  Long  after  we 
had  gone  on,  we  caught  bursts  of  rum 
pus  ascending  from  below.  Shortly  we 
came  to  a  comparatively  level  country, 
and  a  little  meadow,  and  a  rough  sign 
which  read 

"  Feed  20c.  a  night." 

Just  beyond  this  extortion  was  the 
Giant  Forest. 

We  entered  it  toward  the  close  of  the 
afternoon,  and  rode  on  after  our  wonted 
time  looking  for  feed  at  less  than  twenty 
cents  a  night.  The  great  trunks,  fluted 
like  marble  columns,  blackened  against 
the  western  sky.  As  they  grew  huger, 
we  seemed  to  shrink,  until  we  moved 
fearful  as  prehistoric  man  must  have 
moved  among  the  forces  over  which  he 
had  no  control.  We  discovered  our 
feed  in  a  narrow  "  stringer  "  a  few  miles 
on.  That  night  we,  pygmies,  slept  in 
the  setting  before  which  should  have 
stridden  the  colossi  of  another  age. 
Perhaps  eventually,  in  spite  of  its  mag 
nificence  and  wonder,  we  were  a  little 
glad  to  leave  the  Giant  Forest.  It  held 
us  too  rigidly  to  a  spiritual  standard  of 
which  our  normal  lives  were  incapable  ; 
it  insisted  on  a  loftiness  of  soul,  a  dig 
nity,  an  aloofness  from  the  ordinary 
affairs  of  life,  the  ordinary  occupations 
of  thought,  hardly  compatible  with  the 
powers  of  any  creature  less  noble,  less 
aged,  less  wise  in  the  passing  of  cen 
turies,  than  itself. 


XIX On   Cowboys 


Your  cowboy  is  a  species  variously 
subdivided.  If  you  happen  to  be  trav 
eled  as  to  the  wild  countries,  you  will 
be  able  to  recognize  whence  your  chance 


acquainta-nce  hails  by  the  kind  of  saddle 
he  rides,  and  the  rigging. of  it;  by  the 
kind  of  rope  he  throws,  and  the  method 
of  the  throwing;  by  the  shape  of  hat 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


83 


he  wears  ;  by  his  twist  of  speech ;  even 
by  the  very  manner  of  his  riding.  Your 
California  "  vaquero "  from  the  Coast 
Ranges  is  as  unlike  as  possible  to  your 
Texas  cowman,  and  both  differ  from 
the  Wyoming  or  South  Dakota  article. 
I  should  be  puzzled  to  define  exactly 
the  habitat  of  the  "  typical "  cowboy. 
No  matter  where  you  go,  you  will  find 
your  individual  acquaintance  varying 
from  the  type  in  respect  to  some  of  the 
minor  details. 

Certain  characteristics  run  through 
the  whole  tribe,  however.  Of  these 
some  are  so  well  known  or  have  been  so 
adequately  done  elsewhere  that  it  hardly 
seems  wise  to  elaborate  on  them  here. 
Let  us  assume  that  you  and  I  know 
what  sort  of  human  beings  cowboys  are — 
with  all  their  taciturnity,  their  surface 
gravity,  their  keen  sense  of  humor,  their 
courage,  their  kindness,  their  freedom, 
their  lawlessness,  theirfoulness  of  mouth, 
and  their  supreme  skill  in  the  handling 
of  horses  and  cattle.  I  shall  try  to  tell 
you  nothing  of  all  that. 

If  one  thinks  down  doggedly  to  the 
last  analysis,  he  will  find  that  the  basic 
reason  for  the  differences  between  a 
cowboy  and  other  men  rests  finally  on 
an  individual  liberty,  a  freedom  from 
restraint  either  of  society  or  convention, 
a  lawlessness,  an  accepting  of  his  own 
standard  alone.  He  is  absolutely  self- 
poised  and  sufficient;  and  that  self- 
poise  and  that  sufficiency  he  takes  pains 
to  assure  first  of  all.  After  their  assur 
ance  he  is  willing  to  enter  into  human 
relations.  His  attitude  toward  every 
thing  in  life  is,  not  suspicious,  but 
watchful.  He  is  "  gathered  together," 
his  elbows  at  his  side. 

This  evidences  itself  most  strikingly 
in  his  terseness  of  speech.  A  man  de 
pendent  on  himself  naturally  does  not 
give  himself  away  to  the  first  comer. 
He  is  more  interested  in  finding  out 
what  the  other  fellow  is  than  in  exploit 
ing  his  own  importance.  A  man  who 
does  much  promiscuous  talking  he  is 
likely  to  despise,  arguing  that  man  in 
cautious,  hence  weak. 

Yet  when  he  does  talk,  he  talks  to 
the  point  and  with  a  vivid  and  direct 
picturesqueness  of  phrase  which  is  as 
refreshing  as  it  is  unexpected.  The 


delightful  remodeling  of  the  English 
language  in  Mr.  Alfred  Lewis's  "  Wolf- 
ville  "  is  exaggerated  only  in  quantity, 
not  in  quality.  No  cowboy  talks  habitu 
ally  in  quite  as  original  a  manner  as 
Mr.  Lewis's  Old  Cattleman  ;  but  I  have 
no  doubt  that  in  time  he  would  be  heard 
to  say  all  the  good  things  in  that  volume. 
I  myself  have  note-books  full  of  just 
such  gorgeous  language,  some  of  the 
best  of  which  I  have  used  elsewhere, 
and  so  will  not  repeat  here.1 

This  vividness  manifests  itself  quite 
as  often  in  the  selection  of  the  apt  word 
as  in  the  construction  of  elaborate 
phrases  with  a  half-humorous  intention. 
A  cowboy  once  told  me  of  the  arrival 
of  a  tramp  by  saying,  "  He  sifted  into 
camp."  Could  any  verb  be  more  ex 
pressive?  Does  not  it  convey  exactly 
the  lazy,  careless,  out-at-heels  shuffling 
gait  of  the  hobo  ?  Another  in  the  course 
of  description  told  of  a  saloon  scene, 
"  They  all  bellied  up  to  the  bar."  Again, 
a  range  cook,  objecting  to  purposeless 
idling  about  his  fire,  shouted  :  "  If  you 
fellows  come  moping  around  here  any 
more,  /'//  sure  make  you  hard  to  catch  ! 
"  Fish  in  that  pond,  son  ?  Why,  there's 
some  fish  in  there  big  enough  to  rope," 
another  advised  me.  "  I  quit  shovel 
ing,"  one  explained  the  story  of  his  life, 
"  because  I  couldn't  see  nothing  ahead 
of  shoveling  but  dirt."  The  same  man 
described  plowing  as  "  looking  at  a 
mule's  tail  all  day."  And  one  of  the 
most  succinct  epitomes  of  the  motifs  of 
fiction  was  offered  by  an  old  fellow  who 
looked  over  my  shoulder  as  I  was  read 
ing  a  novel.  "  Well,  son,"  said  he, 
"  what  they  doing  now,  kissing  or  kill 
ing •?» 

Nor  are  the  complete  phrases  behind 
in  aptness.  I  have  space  for  only  a  few 
examples,  but  they  will  illustrate  what  I 
mean.  Speaking  of  a  companion  who 
was  "  putting  on  too  much  dog,"  I  was 
infprmed,  "  He  walks  like  a  man  with  a 
new  suit  of  wooden  underwear  !"  Or, 
again,  in  answer  to  my  inquiry  as  to  a 
mutual  acquaintance,  "  Jim  ?  Oh,  poor 
old  Jim !  For  the  last  week  or  so  he's 
been  nothing  but  an  insignificant  atom 
of  humanity  hitched  to  a  boil." 


JSee  especially  Jackson  H 
Trail ;»  and  "  The  Rawhide." 


Himes   in  "  The    Blazed 


86 


The  Outlook 


[3  September 


"Hoi'  on!"  he  babbled.  "  I  take 
him  off;"  and  he  scrambled  over  the 
fence  and  approached  the  cow. 

Now,  cattle  of  any  sort  rush  at  the 
first  object  they  see  after  getting  to  their 
feet.  But  whereas  a  steer  makes  a  blind 
run  and  so  can  be  avoided,  a  cow  keeps 
her  eyes  open.  Sang  approached  that 
wild-eyed  cow,  a  bland  smile  on  his 
countenance. 

A  dead  silence  fell.  Looking  about 
at  my  companions'  faces,  I  could  not 
discern  even  in  the  depths  of  their  eyes 
a  single  faint  flicker  of  human  interest. 

Sang  loosened  the  rope  from  the  hind 
leg,  he  threw  it  from  the  horns,  he 
slapped  the  cow  with  his  hat,  and  uttered 
the  shrill  Chinese  yell.  So  far  all  was 
according  to  programme. 

The  cow  staggered  to  her  feet,  her 
eyes  blazing  fire.  She  took  one  good 
look,  and  then  started  for  Sang. 

What  followed  occurred  with  all  the 
briskness  of  a  tune  from  a  circus  band. 
Sang  darted  for  the  corral  fence.  Now, 
three  sides  of  the  corral  were  railed, 
and  so  climbable,  but  the  fourth  was  a 
solid  adobe  wall.  Of  course  Sang  went 
for  the  wall.  There,  finding  his  nails 
would  not  stick,  he  fled  down  the  length 
of  it,  his  queue  streaming,  his  eyes 
popping,  his  talons  curved  toward  an 
ideal  of  safety,  gibbering  strange  monkey 
talk,  pursued  a  scant  arm's  length  be 
hind  by  that  infuriated  cow.  Did  any 
one  help  him  ?  Not  any.  Every  man 
of  that  crew  was  hanging  weak  from 
laughter  to  the  horn  of  his  saddle  or 
the  top  of  the  fence.  The  preternatural 
solemnity  had  broken  to  little  bits. 
Men  came  running  from  the  bunk-house, 
only  to  go  into  spasms  outside,  to  roll 
over  and  over  on  the  ground,  clutching 
handfuls  of  herbage  in  the  agony  of 
their  delight. 

At  the  end  of  the  corral  was  a  narrow 
chute.  Into  this  Sang  escaped  as  into 
a  burrow.  The  cow  came  too.  Sang, 
in  desperation,  seized  a  pole,  but  the 
cow  dashed  such  a  feeble  weapon  aside. 
Sang  caught  sight  of  a  little  opening, 
too  small  for  cows,  back  into  the  main 
corral.  He  squeezed  through.  The  cow 
crashed  through  after  him,  smashing  the 
boards.  At  the  crucial  moment  Sang 
tripped  and  fell  on  his  face.  The  cow 


missed  him  by  so  close  a  margin  that 
for  a  moment  we  thought  she  had  hit 
But  she  had  not,  and  before  she  could 
turn  Sang  had  topped  the  fence  and  was 
half-way  to  the  kitchen.  Tom  Waters 
always  maintained  that  he  spread  his 
Chinese  sleeves  and  flew.  Shortly  after 
a  tremendous  smoke  arose  from  the 
kitchen  chimney.  Sang  had  gone  back 
to  cooking. 

Now  that  Mongolian  was  really  in 
great  danger,  but  no  one  of  the  outfit 
thought  for  a  moment  of  any  but  the 
humorous  aspect  of  the  affair.  Analo 
gously,  in  a  certain  small  cow  town  I 
happened  to  be  transient  when  the  post 
master  shot  a  Mexican.  Nothing  was 
done  about  it.  The  man  went  right  on 
being  postmaster,  but  he  had  to  set  up 
the  drinks  because  he  had  hit  the  Mexi 
can  in  the  stomach.  That  was  consid 
ered  a  poor  place  to  hit  a  man. 

The  entire  town  of  Willcox  knocked 
off  work  for  nearly  a  day  to  while  away 
the  tedium  of  an  enforced  wait  there  on 
my  part.  They  wanted  me  to  go  fish 
ing.  One  man  offered  a  team,  the  other 
a  saddle-horse.  All  expended  much  elo 
quence  in  directing  me  accurately,  so 
that  I  should  be  sure  to  find  exactly  the 
spot  where  I  could  hang  my  feet  over  a 
bank  beneath  which  there  were  "  a 
plumb  plenty  of  fish."  Somehow  or 
other  they  raked  out  miscellaneous 
tackle.  But  they  were  a  little  too  eager. 
I  excused  myself  and  hunted  up  a  map. 
Sure  enough  the  lake  was  there,  but  it 
had  been  dry  since  a  previous  geologi 
cal  period.  The  fish  were  undoubtedly 
there  too,  but  they  were  fossil  fish.  I 
borrowed  a  pickax  and  shovel  and 
announced  myself  as  ready  to  start. 

Outside  the  principal  saloon  in  one 
town  hung  a  gong.  When  a  stranger 
was  observed  to  enter  the  saloon,  that 
gong  was  sounded.  Then  it  behooved 
him  to  treat  those  who  came  in  answer 
to  the  summons. 

But  when  it  comes  to  a  case  of  real 
hospitality  or  helpfulness,  your  cowboy 
is  there  every  time.  You  are  welcome 
to  food  and  shelter  without  price, 
whether  he  is  at  home  or  not.  Only  it 
is  etiquette  to  leave  your  name  and 
thanks  pinned  somewhere  about  the 
place.  Otherwise  your  intrusion  may 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


87 


be  considered  in  the  light  of  a  theft, 
and  you  may  be  pursued  accordingly. 

Contrary  to  general  opinion,  the  cow 
boy  is  not  a  dangerous  man  to  those  not 
looking  for  trouble.  There  are  occa 
sional  exceptions,  of  course,  but  they 
belong  to  the  universal  genus  of  bully, 
and  can  be  found  among  any  class. 
Attend  to  your  own  business,  be  cool 
and  good-natured,  and  your  skin  is 
safe.  Then  when  it  is  really  "  up  to 
you,"  be  a  man  ;  you  will  never  lack  for 
friends. 

The  Sierras,  especially  towards  the 
south  where  the  meadows  are  wide  and 
numerous,  are  full  of  cattle  in  small 
bands.  They  come  up  from  the  desert 
about  the  first  of  June,  and  are  driven 
back  again  to  the  arid  countries  as  soon 
as  the  autumn  storms  begin.  In  the 
very  high  land  they  are  few,  and  to  be 
left  to  their  own  devices ;  but  now  we 
entered  a  new  sort  of  country. 

Below  Farewell  Gap  and  the  volcanic 
regions  one's  surroundings  change  en 
tirely.  The  meadows  become  high,  flat 
valleys,  often  miles  in  extent ;  the  moun 
tains — while  registering  big  on  the  ane 
roid — are  so.  >Uttle  elevated  above  the 
plateaus  that  a  few  thousand  feet  is  all 
of  their  apparent  height;  the  passes  are 
low,  the  slopes  easy,  the  trails  good,  the 
rock  outcrops  few,  the  hills  grown  with 
forests  to  their  very  tops.  Altogether 
it  is  a  country  easy  to  ride  through, 
rich  in  grazing,  cool  and  green,  with  its 
eight  thousand  feet  of  elevation.  Con 
sequently  during  the  hot  months  thou 
sands  of  desert  cattle  are  pastured  here ; 
and  with  them  come  many  of  the  desert 
men. 

Our  first  intimation  of  these  things 
was  in  the  volcanic  region  where  swim 
the  golden  trout.  From  the  advantage 
of  a  hill  we  looked  far  down  to  a  hair- 
grass  meadow  through  which  twisted 
tortuously  a  brook,  and  by  the  side  of 
the  brook,  belittled  by  distance,  was  a 
miniature  man.  We  could  see  distinctly 
his  every  movement,  as  he  approached 
cautiously  the  stream's  edge,  dropped 
his  short  line  at  the  end  of  a  stick  over 
the  bank,  and  then  yanked  bodily  the 
fish  from  beneath.  Behind  him  stood 
his  pony.  We  could  make  out  in  the 
clear  air  the  coil  of  his  rawhide  "  rope," 


the  glitter  of  his  silver  bit,  the  metal 
points  on  his  saddle  skirts,  the  polish  of 
his  six-shooter,  the  gleam  of  his  fish,  all 
the  details  of  his  costume.  Yet  he  was 
fully  a  mile  distant.  After  a  time  he 
picked  up  his  string  of  fish,  mounted, 
and  jogged  loosely  away  at  the  cow- 
pony's  little  Spanish  trot  toward  the 
south.  Over  a  week  later,  having  caught 
golden  trout  and  climbed  Mount  Whit 
ney,  we  followed  him,  and  so  came  to 
the  great  central  camp  at  Monache 
Meadows. 

Imagine  an  island-dotted  lake  of  grass 
four  or  five  miles  long  by  two  or  three 
wide,  to  which  slope  regular  shores  of 
stony  soil  planted  with  trees.  Imagine 
on  the  very  edge  of  that  lake  an  espe 
cially  fine  grove,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  length,  beneath  whose  trees  a 
dozen  different  outfits  of  cowboys  are 
camped  for  the  summer.  You  must  place 
a  herd  of  ponies  in  the  foreground,  a 
pine  mountain  at  the  back,  an  unbroken 
ridge  across  ahead,  cattle  dotted  here 
and  there,  thousands  of  ravens  wheeling 
and  croaking  and  flapping  everywhere, 
a  marvelous  clear  sun  and  blue  sky. 
The  camps  were  mostly  open,  though 
a  few  possessed  tents.  They  differed 
from  the  ordinary  in  that  they  had  racks 
for  saddles  and  equipments.  Especially 
well  laid  out  were  the  cooking  arrange 
ments.  A  dozen  accommodating  springs 
supplied  fresh  water  with  the  conven 
iently  regular  spacing  of  faucets. 

Towards  evening  the  men  jingled  in. 
This  summer  camp  was  almost  in  the 
nature  of  a  vacation  to  them  after  the 
hard  work  of  the  desert.  All  they  had 
to  do  was  to  ride  about  the  pleasant 
hills  examining  that  the  cattle  did  not 
stray  nor  get  into  trouble.  It  was  fun 
for  them,  and  they  were  in  high  spirits. 

Our  immediate  neighbors  were  an  old 
man  of  seventy-two  and  his  grandson  of 
twenty-five.  At  least  the  old  man  said 
he  was  seventy-two.  I  should  have 
guessed  fifty.  He  was  as  straight  as  an 
arrow,  wiry,  lean,  clear-eyed,  and  had, 
without  food,  ridden  twelve  hours  after 
some  strayed  cattle.  On  arriving  he 
threw  off  his  saddle,  turned  his  horse 
loose,  and  set  about  the  construction  of 
supper.  This  consisted  of  boiled  meat, 
strong  tea,  and  an  incredible  number  of 


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[3  September 


flapjacks  built  of  water,  baking-powder, 
salt,  and  flour,  warmed  through — not 
cooked — in  a  frying-pan.  He  deluged 
these  with  molasses  and  devoured  three 
platefuls.  It  would  have  killed  an 
ostrich,  but  apparently  did  this  decrepit 
veteran  of  seventy-two  much  good. 

After  supper  he  talked  to  us  most 
interestingly  in  the  dry  cowboy  manner, 
looking  at  us  keenly  from  under  the 
floppy  brim  of  his  hat.  He  confided  to 
us  that  he  had  had  to  quit  smoking,  and 
it  ground  him — he'd  smoked  since  he 
was  five  years  old. 

"Tobacco  doesn't  agree  with  you  any 
more  ?"  I  hazarded. 

"  Oh,  'tain't  that,"  he  replied ;  "  only 
I'd  ruther  chew." 


The  dark  fell,  and  all  the  little  camp- 
fires  under  the  trees  twinkled  bravely 
forth.  Some  of  the  men  sang.  One 
had  an  accordion.  Figures,  indistinct 
and  formless,  wandered  here  and  there 
in  the  shadows,  suddenly  emerging  from 
mystery  into  the  clarity  of  firelight,  there 
to  disclose  themselves  as  visitors.  Out 
on  the  plain  the  cattle  lowed,  the  horses 
nickered.  The  red  firelight  flashed  from 
the  metal  of  suspended  equipment,  crim 
soned  the  bronze  of  men's  faces,  touched 
with  pink  the  high  lights  on  their  grace 
fully  recumbent  forms.  After  a  while 
we  rolled  up  in  our  blankets  and  went 
to  sleep,  while  a  band  of  coyotes  wailed 
like  lost  spirits  from  a  spot  where  a  steer 
had  died. 


A  Legatee  of  Lovelessness 

By  Owen  Kildare1 

Author  of  "  My  Mamie  Rose,"  etc. 


AMONG  the  many  unheard-of 
things  in  the  slums  is  the  science 
of  genealogy.  Owing  to  the 
absence  of  the  genealogical  fad,  the  origin 
and  ancestry  of  the  Kid  were  shrouded 
in  densest  obscurity.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  racial  mosaic  in  his  features,  the 
accident  of  his  birth  would  have  passed 
entirely  without  comment.  But  the  com 
posite  effect  of  the  formation,  angle,  and 
coloring  of  his  face  was  such  that  no 
one  could  see  it  without  feeling  a  desire 
to  "  know  all  about  it." 

Questions  like  "Of  what  nationality 
are  you  ?"  "  Where  were  you  born  ?" 
"  Who  was  your  father  ?"  became  so 
frequent  and  monotonous  that  the  Kid 
fled  at  the  approach  of  persons  unknown 
to  him. 

They  of  the  neighborhood — China 
town  and  its  immediate  vicinity — were 
divided  into  two  factions  concerning  the 

1  Many  of  our  readers  have  learned  through  Mr. 
Kildare's  book,  "  My  Mamie  Rose,"  the  story  of  his 
life.  Born  among  the  worst  conditions  of  life  on  the 
East  Side  of  New  York  City,  forced  taught  for  himself 
as  a  boy,  he  was  at  the  age  of  thirty  unat>le  to  read  and 
write,  the  associate  of  Bowery  thugs  and  toughs,  "  a 
lump  of  useless  clay,"  as  he  himself  expresses  it. 
Through  the  influence  of  a  true,  fine  woman,  he  gained 
education  and  a  purpose  in  life,  and  has  become  a  suc 
cessful  journalist  and  magazine  writer.  His  stories  of 
East  Side  life  are  truthtul  renderings  of  actual  condi 
tions,  and  have  the  power  of  realism  and  honest  feel 
ing.— THE  EDITORS. 


Kid's  classification.  One  half  thought 
it  evident  that  the  Kid  was  negro  and 
white,  while  the  other  half  was  just  as 
certain  that  he  was  Chinese  and  white. 
The  factions  never  got  into  heated  con 
troversies  about  this  difference  of  opin 
ion.  They  were  content  to  "  let  it  go  at 
that,"  and  never  'lost  any  sleep  over  it." 

The  Kid's  existence  was  so  matter-of- 
fact  that  he  was  the  last  to  be  bothered 
by  the  shadow  of  the  bar  sinister.  His 
days  were  so  taken  up  with  the  striving 
after  the  attainable  that  he  had  no  time 
for  unprofitable  speculation.  To  balance 
his  life  well  was  his  aim.  The  prevail 
ing  tone  of  the  locality  was  not  against 
work,  but  liked  it  best  in  small  doses, 
while  viciousness  was  preferred  to  out- 
and-out  criminality.  So,  the  Kid  wanted 
to  strike  a  fair  medium  between  having 
to  work  and  having  to  steal  for  a  living. 

To  accomplish  his  purpose,  the  Kid 
had  to  overcome  many  obstacles.  But 
the  most  severe  handicap  was  that  he 
had  to  fight  and  stay  entirely  alone. 
His  racial  legacy  was  answerable  foi 
this. 

Children  are  gregarious.  The  Kid, 
too,  before  he  understood,  had  tried  to 
join  the  playing  children  on  the  smooth 
asphalt  pavement  in  Mott  Street.  His 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


131 


some  of  its  greatest  blessings.  We  have 
feared  these  uncouth  and  ignorant  peas 
ants  because  often  we  have  not  under 
stood  them,  or  their  conditions,  or  their 
history.  The  coming  among  us  of  men 
like  Adolfo  Rossi,  by  making  us  see 


that  every  problem   has  many  sides,  re 
minds  us  also  that  all  the  world  is  kin. 

Bearing  this  in  mind,  many  of  our 
National  problems  will  be  simplified,  for 
they  will  be  seen  to  be  rather  problems 
in  human  nature. 


The   Mountains1 

By  Stewart  Edward  White 

Author  of  "  The  Forest,"  "  The  Blazed  Trail,"  "  The  Silent  Places,"  etc. 

XX,  -The  Golden   Trout 


AFTER  Farewell  Gap,  as  has  been 
hinted,  the  country  changes 
utterly.  Possibly  that  is  why 
it  is  named  Farewell  Gap.  The  land  is 
wild,  weird,  full  of  twisted  trees,  strangely 
colored  rocks,  fantastic  formations,  bleak 
mountains  of  slabs,  volcanic  cones,  lava, 
dry  powdery  soil  or  loose  shale,  close- 
growing  grasses,  and  strong  winds.  You 
feel  yourself  in  an  upper  world  beyond 
the  normal,  where  only  the  freakish  cold 
things  of  nature,  elsewhere  crowded  out, 
find  a  home.  Camp  is  under  a  lonely 
tree,  none  the  less  solitary  from  the 
fact  that  it  has  companions.  The  earth 
beneath  is  characteristic  of  the  treeless 
lands,  so  that  these  seem  to  have  been 
stuck  alien  into  it.  There  is  no  shel 
ter  save  behind  great  fortuitous  rocks. 
Huge  marmots  run  over  the  boulders, 
like  little  bears.  The  wind  blows  strong. 
The  streams  run  naked  under  the  eye  of 
the  sun,  exposing  clear  and  yellow  every 
detail  of  their  bottoms.  In  them  there 
are  no  deep,  hiding-places,  any  more 
than  there  is  shelter  in  the  land,  and  so 
every  fish  that  swims  shows  as  plainly  as 
in  an  aquarium. 

We  saw  them  as  we  rode  over  the 
hot,  dry  shale,  among  the  hot  and 
twisted  little  trees.  They  lay  against 
the  bottom,  transparent ;  they  darted 
away  from  the  jar  of  our  horses'  hoofs  ; 
they  swam  slowly  against  the  current, 
delicate  as  liquid  shadows,  as  though  the 
clear,  uniform  golden  color  of  the  bot 
tom  had  clouded  slightly  to  produce 
these  tenuous,  ghostly  forms.  We  exam 
ined  them  curiously  from  the  advantage 
*  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


our  slightly  elevated  trail  gave  us,  and 
knew  them  for  the  Golden  Trout  and 
longed  to  catch  some. 

All  that  day  our  route  followed  in 
general  the  windings  of  this  unique 
home  of  a  unique  fish.  We  crossed  a 
solid  natural  bridge  ;  we  skirted  fields 
of  red  and  black  lava,  vivid  as  poppies  ; 
we  gazed,  marveling,  on  perfect  volcano 
cones,  long  since  extinct;  finally  we 
camped  on  a  side  hill  under  two  tall, 
branchless  trees,  in  about  as  bleak  and 
exposed  a  position  as  one  could  imagine. 
Then,  all  three,  we  jointed  our  rods  and 
went  forth  to  find  out  what  the  Golden 
Trout  was  like. 

I  soon  discovered  a  number  of  things, 
as  follows:  The  stream  at  this  point, 
near  its  source,  is  very  narrow — I  could 
step  across  it — and  flows  beneath  deep 
banks.  The  Golden  Trout  is  shy  of 
approach.  The  wind  blows.  Combin 
ing  these  items  of  knowledge,  I  found 
that  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  cast  forty 
feet  in  a  high  wind  so  accurately  as  to 
hit  a  three-foot  stream  a  yard  below  the 
level  of  the  ground.  In  fact,  the  propo 
sition  was  distinctly  sporty;  I  became 
as  interested  in  it  as  in  accurate  target- 
shooting,  so  that  at  last  I  forgot  utterly 
the  intention-  of  my  efforts  and  failed  to 
strike  my  first  rise.  The  second,  how 
ever,  I  hooked,  and  in  a  moment  had 
him  on  the  grass. 

He  was  a  little  fellow  of  seven  inches, 
but  mere  size  was  nothing;  the  color 
was  the  thing.  And  thzj  was  indeed 
golden.  I  can  liken  it  to  nothing  more 
accurately  than  the  twenty-dollar  gold- 
piece — the  same  satin  finish,  the  same 


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pale  yellow.  The  fish  was  fairly  molten. 
It  did  not  glitter  in  gaudy  burnishment, 
as  does  our  aquarium  goldfish,  for 
example,  but  gleamed  and  melted  and 
glowed  as  though  fresh  from  the  mold. 
One  would  almost  expect  that  on  cutting 
the  flesh  it  would  be  found  golden 
through  all  its  substance.  This  for  the 
basic  color.  You  must  remember  always 
that  it  was  a  true  trout,  without  scales, 
and  so  the  more  satiny.  Furthermore 
along  either  side  of  the  belly  ran  two 
broad  longitudinal  stripes  of  exactly  the 
color  and  burnish  of  the  copper  paint 
used  on  racing  yachts. 

I  thought  then,  and  have  ever  since, 
that  the  Golden  Trout,  fresh  from  the 
water,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  fish 
that  swims.  Unfortunately,  it  fades  very 
quickly,  and  so  specimens  in  alcohol 
can  give  no  idea  of  it.  In  fact,  I  doubt 
if  you  will  ever  be  able  to  gain  a  very 
clear  idea  of  it  unless  you  take  to  the 
trail  that  leads  up,  under  the  end  of 
which  is  known  technically  as  the  High 
Sierras. 

The  Golden  Trout  lives  only  in  this 
one  stream,  but  occurs  there  in  count 
less  multitudes.  Every  little  pool,  depres 
sion,  or  rifrle  has  its  school.  When 
not  alarmed,  they  take  the  fly  readily. 
One  afternooon  I  caught  an  even  hun 
dred  in  a  little  over  an  hour.  By  way 
of  parenthesis,  it  may  be  well  to  state 
that  most  were  returned  unharmed  to 
the  water.  They  run  small — a  twelve- 
inch  fish  is  a  monster — but  are  of 
extraordinary  delicacy  for  eating.  We 
three  devoured  sixty-five  that  first  eve 
ning  in  camp. 

Now,  the  following  considerations 
seem  to  me  at  this  point  worthy  of  note. 
In  the  first  place,  the  Golden  Trout 
occurs  but  in  this  one  stream,  and  is 
easily  caught.  At  present  the  stream 
is  comparatively  inaccessible,  so  that  the 
natural  supply  probably  keeps  even  with 
the  season's  catches.  Still,  the  trail  is 
on  the  direct  route  to  Mount  Whitney, 
and  year  by  year  the  ascent  of  this  "  top 
of  the  Republic  "  is  becoming  more  the 
proper  thing  to  do.  Every  camping 
party  stops  for  a  try  at  the  Golden 
Trout,  and  of  course  the  fish- hog  is  a 
sure  occasional  migrant.  The  cowboys 
told  of  two  who  caught  six  hundred  in  a 


day.  As  the  certainly  increasing  tide  of 
summer  immigration  gains  in  volume, 
the  Golden  Trout,  in  spite  of  his  extraor 
dinary  numbers  at  present,  is  going  to 
be  caught  out. 

Therefore,  it  seems  the  manifest  duty 
of  the  Fisheries  to  provide  for  the  proper 
protection  and  distribution  of  this  spe 
cies,  especially  the  distribution.  Hun 
dreds  of  streams  in  the  Sierras  are  with 
out  trout,  simply  because  of  some  natural 
obstruction,  such  as  a  waterfall  too  high 
to  jump,  which  prevents  their  ascent  of 
the  current.  These  are  all  well  adapted 
to  the  planting  of  fish,  and  might  just  as 
well  be  stocked  by  the  Golden  Trout  as 
by  the  customary  Rainbow.  Care  should 
be  taken  lest  the  two  species  become 
hybridized,  as  has  occurred  following 
certain  misguided  efforts  in  the  South 
Fork  of  the  Kern. 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  one  attempt  has 
been  made  to  transplant  these  fish. 
About  five  or  six  years  ago  a  man  named 
Grant  carried  some  in  pails  across'  to  a 
small  lake  near  at  hand.  They  have 
done  well,  and,  curiously  enough,  have 
grown  to  a  weight  of  from  one  and  a 
half  to  two  pounds.  This  would  seem 
to  show  that  their  small  size  in  Volcano 
Creek  results  entirely  from  conditions  of 
feed  or  opportunity  for  development,  and 
that  a  study  of  proper  environment 
might  result  in  a  game  fish  to  rival  the 
Rainbow  in  size,  and  certainly  to  sur 
pass  him  in  curious  interest. 

A  great  many  well-meaning  people 
who  have  marveled  at  the  abundance  of 
the  Golden  Trout  in  their  natural  habi 
tat  laugh  at  the  idea  that  Volcano  Creek 
will  ever  become  "  fished  out."  To  such 
it  should  be  pointed  out  that  the  fish  in 
question  is  a  voracious  feeder,  is  without 
shelter,  and  quickly  landed.  A  simple 
calculation  will  show  how  many  fish  a 
hundred  moderate  anglers,  camping  a 
week  apiece,  would  take  out  in  a  sea 
son.  And  in  a  short  time  there  will  be 
many  more  than  a  hundred,  few  of  them 
moderate,  coming  up  into  the  mountains 
to  camp  just  as  long  as  they  have  a  good 
time.  All  it  needs  is  better  trails,  and 
better  traits  are  under  way.  Well-mean 
ing  people  used  to  laugh  at  the  idea  that 
the  buffalo  and  wild  pigeons  would  ever 
disappear.  They  are  gone. 


1904] 


The   Mountains 


183 


his  heart.  When  Walker  reads  from 
his  Bible,  we  are  impatient  with  his  halt 
ing  utterances.  When  Walker  closes  the 
book,  we  forget  our  impatience  at  this 
display  of  illiteracy,  and,  like  his  congre 
gation,  lose  ourselves  in  his  native  elo 
quence. 

A  funeral  sermon  that  I  once  heard 
him  preach  is  vividly  impressed  upon 
my  mind.  The  "  deceasted "  sister 
having  been  a  member  of  one  of  the 
societies,  the  funeral  was  under  its 
auspices,  and  they  had  turned  out  in 
large  numbers.  Walker,  through  his 
gold-rimmed  spectacles,  stumbles  over 
the  resolutions  passed  by  the  society  on 
the  death  of  their  beloved  sister.  Then 
begins  his  own  eulogy.  In  a  simple, 
dignified  way  he  reviews  her  life,  em 
phasizing  her  best  traits  of  character  as 
shown  in  her  relations  with  family, 
friends,  and  church.  He  tells  of  her 
work  in  the  Society — her  numerous  char 
ities.  Gradually  the  speaker's  words 
come  more  slowly,  his  tones  more  reso 
nantly,  and  he  pitches  his  voice  in  a 
higher  key.  The  departure  of  the  soul 
from  its  earthly  home  is  graphically 
described,  her  dying  words  repeated. 
The  mourners  begin  to  weep — you  feel 
yourself  affected.  The  soul  is  received 
"  in  the  bosom  of  her  Father."  "  Fur 
one  an'  all  ob  us,  my  sistren,  will  come 
a  dayob  reck'nin'."  Now  the  speaker's 
voice  is  rising  and  falling  in  melodious 
cadence.  The  mourners  are  swaying 
backward  and  forward  :  "  Yes,  Lord  !" 
they  answer.  Occasionally  some  one 
crosses  the  church  to  sit  beside  an  in 


consolable  friend  or  relation.  One 
young  woman  walks  slowly  around  the 
coffin,  now  leaning  over  it,  now  placing 
her  hands  tenderly  upon  it.  "  I  loved 
you,  auntie,"  she  wails,  "  I  loved  you," 
her  voice  keeping  up  the  time  and 
melody  of  the  preacher's,  which  uncon 
sciously  intones  the  old  Baptist  hymn, 
"  'Way  Over  Jordan,  Lord."  The  entire 
audience  is  now  expressing  grief  in  tears 
and  moans  and  distressing  cries.  "  An' 
befo'  de  Jedgment  Seat  you  come — an' 
you — de  Lord  will  hoi'  his  lookin'-glass 
befo'  yor  face,  an'  you  will  say:  '  Lord, 
tak'  dat  glass  awa',  do,  Lord,  'kase  I  ain't 
got  no  good  deeds  to  show  you.'  But, 
my  sistren,  de  Lord  he  gibs  you  one 
mor'  chance.  Git  up  now  at  dis  mos' 
acceptable  time  an'  mak'  yo'selves  wor 
thy  fur  to  be  reflected  in  de  Lord's  big 
lookin'-glass." 

Up  to  this  point  Walker  has  accom 
plished  no  more  than  scores  of  other 
colored  pastors  gifted  with  a  similar 
genius  for  exhortation.  Many,  too,  are 
quite  as  skillful  in  taking  advantage  of 
the  auspicious  moment  when  in  this 
highly  emotional  state  the  simple  natures 
of  their  people  are  particularly  suscep 
tible  to  lessons  of  thrift,  economy,  in 
dustry,  right  conduct,  and  loyalty  to  their 
church.  But,  unlike  most  religious  lead 
ers,  Walker  follows  his  congregation 
out  into  the  world  of  earning  and  spend 
ing.  Through  social  clubs  and  business 
enterprises  which  touch  them  at  every 
side,  on  week-days  as  on  Sundays,  he 
points  the  way  to  the  larger  possibilities 
of  the  individual  and  the  race. 


The   Mountains1 

By  Stewart  Edward  White 

Author  of  "  The  Forest,"  "  The  Blazed  Trail,"  "  The  Silent  Places,"  etc. 

XXI On   Going  Out 


THE  last  few  days  of  your  stay  in 
the  wilderness  you  will  be  con- 
sumedly  anxious  to  get  out.     It 
does  not  matter  how  much  of  a  savage 
you   are,  how  good  a  time  you  are  hav 
ing,  or   how   long  you  have   been    away 

i  Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Outlook  Company. 


from  civilization.  Nor  does  it  mean 
especially  that  you  are  glad  to  leave  the 
wilds.  Merely  does  it  come  about  that 
you  drift  unconcernedly  on  the  stream 
of  days  until  you  approach  the  brink  of 
departure  ;  then  irresistibly  the  current 
hurries  you  into  haste.  The  last  day  of 
your  week's  vacation ;  the  last  three  of 


184 


The  Outlook 


[3  September 


your  month's  or  your  summer's  or  your 
year's  outing — these  comprise  the  hours 
in  which  by  a  mighty  but  invisible 
transformation  your  mind  forsakes  its 
savagery,  epitomizes  again  the  courses 
of  social  evolution,  regains  the  poise  and 
cultivation  of  the  world  of  men.  Before 
that  you  have  been  content ;  yes,  and 
would  have  gone  on  being  content  for 
as  long  as  you  please  until  the  approach  of 
the  limit  you  have  set  for  your  wandering. 

In  effect  this  transformation  from  the 
state  of  savagery  to  the  state  of  civili 
zation  is  very  abrupt  When  you  leave 
the  towns,  your  clothes  and  mind  are 
new.  Only  gradually  do  they  take  on 
the  color  of  their  environment;  only 
gradually  do  the  subtle  influences  of  the 
great  forest  steal  in  on  your  dulled 
faculties  to  flow  over  them  in  a  tide  that 
rises  imperceptibly.  You  glide  as  gently 
from  the  artificial  to  the  natural  life  as 
do  the  forest  shadows  from  night  to  day. 
But  at  the  other  end  the  affair  is  differ 
ent.  There  you  awake  on  the  appointed 
morning  in  complete  resumption  of  your 
old  attitude  of  mind.  The  tide  of  nature 
has  slipped  away  from  you  in  the  night. 

Then  you  arise  and  do  the  most  won 
derful  of  your  wilderness  traveling.  On 
those  days  you  look  back  fondly,  of  them 
you  boast  afterwards  in  telling  what  a 
rapid  and  enduring  voyager  you  are. 
The  biggest  day's  journey  I  ever  under 
took  was  in  just  such  a  case.  We  started 
at  four  in  the  morning  through  a  forest 
of  the  early  springtime,  where  the  trees 
were  glorious  overhead,  but  the  walking 
ankle  deep.  On  our  backs  were  thirty- 
pound  burdens.  We  walked  steadily 
until  three  in  the  afternoon,  by  which 
time  we  had  covered  thirty  miles  and 
had  arrived  at  what  then  represented 
civilization  to  us.  Of  the  nine  who 
started,  two  Indians  finished  an  hour 
ahead  ;  the  half-breed,  Billy,  and  I  stag 
gered  in  together,  encouraging  each 
other  by  words  concerning  the  bottle  of 
beer  we  were  going  to  buy ;  and  the 
five  white  men  never  got  in  at  all  until 
after  nine  o'clock  that  night.  Neither 
thirty  miles,  nor  thirty  pounds,  nor  ankle- 
deep  slush  sounds  formidable  when  con 
sidered  as  abstract  and  separate  prop 
ositions. 

In  your  first  glimpse  ot  the  civilized 


peoples  your  appearance  in  your  own 
eyes  will  undergo  the  same  instantane 
ous  and  tremendous  revulsion  that  has 
already  taken  place  in  your  mental 
sphere.  Heretofore  you  have  consid 
ered  yourself  as  a  decently  well  appoint 
ed  gentleman  of  the  woods.  Ten  to 
one,  in  contrast  to  the  voluntary  or 
enforced  simplicity  of  the  professional 
woodsman  you  have  looked  on  your 
little  luxuries  of  carved  leather  hat-band, 
fancy  knife-sheath,  pearl-handled  six- 
shooter,  or  khaki  breeches  as  giving  you 
slightly  the  air  of  a  forest  exquisite. 
But  on  that  depot  platform  or  in  pres 
ence  of  that  staring  group  on  the  steps 
of  the  Pullman,  you  suddenly  discover 
yourself  to  be  nothing  less  than  a  dis 
grace  to  your  bringing  up.  Nothing 
could  be  more  evident  than  the  flop  of 
your  hat,  the  faded,  dusty  appearance 
of  your  blue  shirt,  the  beautiful  black 
polish  of  your  khakis,  the  grime  of  your 
knuckles,  the  three  days'  beard  of  your 
face.  If  you  are  a  fool,  you  worry  about 
it.  If  you  are  a  sensible  man,  you  do 
not  mind — and  you  prepare  for  amusing 
adventures. 

The  realization  of  your  external  un- 
worthiness,  however,  brings  to  your  heart 
the  desire  for  a  hot  bath  in  a  porcelain 
tub.  You  gloat  over  the  thought ;  and 
when  the  dream  comes  to  be  a  reality,  you 
soak  away  in  as  voluptuous  a  pleasure 
as  ever  falls  to  the  lot  of  man  to  enjoy. 
Then  you  shave,  and  array  yourself 
minutely  and  preciously  in  clean  clothes 
from  head  to  toe,  building  up  a  new 
respectability,  and  you  leave  scornfully 
in  a  heap  your  camping  garments.  They 
have  heretofore  seemed  clean,  but  now 
you  would  not  touch  them,  no,  not  even 
to  put  them  in  the  soiled-clothes  basket, 
let  your  feminines  rave  as  they  may. 
And  for  at  least  two  days  you  prove  an 
almost  childish  delight  in  mere  raiment. 

But  before  you  can  reach  this  blissful 
stage  you  have  still  to  order  and  enjoy 
your  first  civilized  dinner.  It  tastes 
good,  not  because  your  camp  dinners 
have  palled  on  you,  but  because  your 
transformation  demands  its  proper  ali 
ment.  Fortunate  indeed  you  are  if  you 
step  directly  to  a  transcontinental  train 
or  into  the  streets  of  a  modern  town. 
Otherwise  the  transition  through  the 


1904] 


The  Mountains 


185 


small-hotel  provender  is  apt  to  offer  too 
little  contrast  for  the  fullest  enjoyment. 
But  aboard  the  dining-car  or  in  the  cafe 
you  will  gather  to  yourself  such  ill- 
assorted  succulence  as  thick,  juicy  beef 
steaks,  and  creamed  macaroni,  and 
sweet  potatoes,  and  pie,  and  red  wine, 
and  real  cigars  and  other  things. 

In  their  acquisition  your  appearance 
will  tell  against  you.  We  were  once 
watched  anxiously  by  a  nervous  female 
head  waiter  who  at  last  mustered  up 
courage  enough  to  inform  me  that  guests 
were  not  allowed  to  eat  without  coats. 
We  politely  pointed  out  that  we  pos 
sessed  no  such  garments.  After  a  long 
consultation  with  the  proprietor  she  told 
us  it  was  all  right  for  this  time,  but  that 
we  must  not  do  it  again.  At  another 
place  I  had  to  identify  myself  as  a  re 
sponsible  person  by  showing  a  picture 
in  a  magazine  bought  for  the  purpose. 

The  public  never  will  know  how  to 
take  you.  Most  of  it  treats  you  as 
though  you  were  a  two-dollar-a-day 
laborer ;  some  of  the  more  astute  are 
puzzled.  One  February  I  walked  out 
of  the  North  Country  on  snowshoes,  and 
stepped  directly  into  a  Canadian  Pacific 
transcontinental  train.  I  was  clad  in 
fur  cap,  vivid  blanket  coat,  corded 
trousers,  German  stockings  and  moc 
casins ;  and  my  only  baggage  was  the 
pair  of  snowshoes.  It  was  the  season  of 
light  travel.  A  single  Englishman  tour 
ing  the  world  as  the  crow  flies  occupied 
the  car.  He  looked  at  me  so  askance 
that  I  made  an  opportunity  of  talking  to 
him.  I  should  like  to  read  his  "  Travels  " 
to  see  what  he  made  out  of  the  riddle. 
In  similar  circumstances,  and  without 
explanation,  I  had  fun  talking  French 
and  swapping  boulevard  reminiscences 
with  a  member  of  a  Parisian  theatrical 
troupe  making  a  long  jump  through 
northern  Wisconsin.  And  once,  at  six 
of  the  morning,  letting  myself  into  my 
own  house  with  a  latch-key,  and  sitting 
down  to  read  the  paper  until  the  family 
awoke,  I  was  nearly  brained  by  the 
butler.  He  supposed  me  a  belated  bur 
glar,  and  had  armed  himself  with  the 
poker.  The  most  flattering  experience 
of  the  kind  was  voiced  by  a  small  urchin 
who  plucked  at  his  mother's  sleeve : 
"  Look,  mamma  1"  he  exclaimed  in 


guarded  but  jubilant  tones,  "  there's  a 
real  Indian  1" 

Our  last  camp  of  this  summer  was 
built  and  broken  in  the  full  leisure  of  at 
least  a  three  weeks'  expectation.  We 
had  traveled  south  from  the  Golden 
Trout  through  the  Toowah  range. 
There  we  had  viewed  wonders  which  I 
cannot  expect  you  to  believe  in — such 
as  a  spring  of  warm  water  in  which  you 
could  bathe,  and  from  which  you  could 
reach  to  dip  up  a  cup  of  carbonated 
water  on  the  right  hand,  or  cast  a  fly 
into  a  trout  stream  on  the  left.  At 
length  we  entered  a  high  meadow  in  the 
shape  of  a  Maltese  cross,  with  pine 
slopes  about  it,  and  springs  of  water 
welling  in  little  humps  of  green.  There 
the  long  pine  needles  were  extraordinarily 
thick  and  the  pine  cones  exceptionally 
large.  The  former  we  scraped  together 
to  the  depth  of  three  feet  for  a  bed  in 
the  lea  of  a  fallen  trunk ;  the  latter  we 
gathered  in  armf  uls  to  pile  on  the  camp 
fire.  Next  morning  we  rode  down  a 
mile  or  so  through  the  grasses,  exclaimed 
over  the  thousands  of  mountain  quail 
buzzing  from  the  creek  bottoms,  gazed 
leisurely  up  at  our  well-known  pines  and 
about  at  the  grateful  coolness  of  our 
accustomed  green  meadows  and  leaves ; 
and  then,  as  though  we  had  crossed  a 
threshold,  we  emerged  into  chaparral, 
dry,  loose  shale,  yucca,  Spanish  bayonet, 
heated  air  and  the  bleached,  burned  out, 
furnace-like  country  of  arid  California 
in  midsummer.  The  trail  dropped  down 
through  sage-brush,  just  as  it  always  did 
in  the  California  we  had  known ;  the 
mountains  rose  with  the  fur-like  dark 
olive  effect  of  the  coast  ranges  ;  the  sun 
beat  hot.  We  had  left  the  enchanted 
land. 

The  trail  was  very  steep  and  very 
long,  and  took  us  finally  into  the  country 
of  dry  brown  grasses,  gray  brush,  water 
less  stony  ravines,  and  dust.  Others 
had  traveled  that  trail,  headed  the  other 
way,  and  evidently  had  not  liked  it. 
Empty  bottles  blazed  the  path.  Some 
body  had  sacrificed  a  pack  of  playing- 
cards,  which  he  had  stuck  on  thorns 
from  time  to  time,  each  inscribed  with  a 
blasphemous  comment  on  the  discom 
forts  of  such  travel.  After  an  appar 
ently  interminable  interval  we  crossed 


186 


The  Outlook 


[17  September 


an  irrigating  ditch,  where  the  horses 
were  glad  to  water,  and  so  came  to  one 
of  those  green  flowering  lush  California 
villages  so  startlmgly  in  contrast  to  their 
surroundings. 

By  this  it  was  two  o'clock,  and  we  had 
traveled  on  horseback  since  four.  A 
variety  of  circumstances  learned  at  the 
village  made  it  imperative  that  both  the 
Tenderfoot  and  myself  should  go  out 
without  the  delay  of  a  single  hour.  This 
left  Wes  to  bring  the  horses  home,  which 
was  tough  on  Wes,  but  he  rose  nobly  to 
the  occasion. 

When  the  dust  of  our  rustling  cleared, 
we  found  we  had  acquired  a  team  of 
wild  broncos,  a  buckboard,  an  elderly 
gentleman  with  a  white  goatee,  two  bot 
tles  of  beer,  some  crackers  and  some 
cheese.  With  these  we  hoped  to  reach 
the  railroad  shortly  after  midnight. 

The  elevation  was  five  thousand  feet, 
the  road  dusty  and  hot,  the  country  unin 
teresting  in  sage-brush  and  alkali  and 
rattlesnakes  and  general  dryness.  Con 
stantly  we  drove,  checking  off  the  land 
marks  in  the  good  old  fashion.  Our 
driver  had  immigrated  from  Maine  the 
year  before,  and  by  some  chance  had 
drifted  straight  to  the  arid  regions.  He 
was  vastly  disgusted.  At  every  particu 
larly  atrocious  dust-hole  or  unlovely 
cactus  strip  he  spat  into  space,  and 
remarked  in  tones  of  bottomless  con 
tempt  : 

"  £tau-t\-iu\  Cal-if-or-nia  1" 

This  was  evidently  intended  as  a  quo 
tation. 

Towards  sunset  we  ran  up  into 
rounded  hills,  where  we  got  out  at  every 
rise  in  order  to  ease  the  horses,  and 
where  we  hurried  the  old  gentleman 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  Easterner's 
caution  at  every  descent. 

It  grew  dark.  Dimly  the  road  showed 
gray  in  the  twilight.  We  did  not  know 
how  far  exactly  we  were  to  go,  but 
imagined  that  sooner  or  later  we  would 
top  one  of  the  small  ridges  to  look  across 
one  of  the  broad  plateau  plains  to  the 
lights  of  our  station.  You  see,  we  had 
forgotten,  in  the  midst  of  flatness,  that 
we  were  still  over  five  thousand  feet  up. 
Then  the  road  felt  its  way  between  two 
hills  ;  and  the  blackness  of  night  opened 
below  us  as  well  as  above,  and  from 


some  deep  and  tremendous  abyss 
breathed  the  winds  of  space. 

It  was  as  dark  as  a  cave,  for  the  moon 
was  yet  two  hours  below  the  horizon. 
Somehow  the  trail  turned  to  the  right 
along  that  tremendous  cliff.  We  thought 
we  could  make  out  its  direction,  the  dim 
ness  of  its  glimmering  ;  but  equally  well, 
after  we  had  looked  a  moment,  we  could 
imagine  it  one  way  or  another,  to  right 
and  left.  I  went  ahead  to  investigate. 
The  trail  to  left  proved  to  be  the  faint 
reflection  of  a  clump  of  "  old  man  "  at 
least  five  hundred  feet  down  ;  that  to 
right  was  a  burned  patch  sheer  against 
the  rise  of  the  cliff.  'We  started  on  the 
middle  way. 

There  were  turns-in  where  a  continu 
ance  straight  ahead  would  require  an 
airship  or  a  coroner ;  again  turns-out 
where  the  direct  line  would  telescope 
you  against  the  State  of  California. 
These  we  could  make  out  by  straining 
our  eyes.  The  horses  plunged  and 
snorted ;  the  buckboard  leaped.  Fire 
flashed  from  the  impact  of  steel  against 
rock,  momentarily  blinding  us  to  what 
we  should  see.  Always  we  descended 
into  the  velvet  blackness  of  the  abyss, 
the  canon  walls  rising  steadily  above  us 
shutting  out  even  the  dim  illumination 
of  the  stars.  From  time  to  time  our 
driver,  desperately  scared,  jerked  out 
cheering  bits  of  information. 

'"  My  eyes  ain't  what  they  was.  For 
the  Lord's  sake  keep  a-lookin',  boys." 

"  That  nigh  hoss  is  deef.  There  don't 
seem  to  be  no  use  saying  whoa  to  her." 

"  Them  brakes  don't  hold  fer  sour 
peanuts.  I  been  figgerin'  on  tackin'  on 
a  new  shoe  for  a  week." 

"  I  never  was  over  this  road  but  onct, 
and  then  I  was  headed  th'  other  way. 
I  was  driving  of  a  corpse." 

Then,  after  two  hours  of  it,  bing  / 
bang!  smash!  our  tongue  collided  with 
a  sheer  black  wall,  no  blacker  than  the 
atmosphere  before  it.  .The  trail  here 
took  a  sharp  V  turn  to  the  left.  We 
had  left  the  face  of  the  precipice  and 
henceforward  would  descend  the  bed  of 
the  canon.  Fortunately,  our  collision 
had  done  damage  to  nothing  but  our 
nerves,  so  we  proceeded  to  do-  so. 

The  walls  of  the  crevice  rose  thou 
sands  of  feet  above  us.  They  seemed  to 


19041 


The  Mountains 


187 


close  together,  like  the  sides  of  a  tent, 
to  leave  only  a  narrow  pale  lucent  strip 
of'sky.  The  trail  was  quite  invisible, 
and  even  the  sense  of  its  existence  was 
lost  when  we  traversed  groves  of  trees. 
One  of  us  had  to  run  ahead  of  the 
horses,  determining  its  general  direction, 
locating  the  sharper  turns.  The  rest 
depended  on  the  instinct  of  the  horses 
and  pure  luck. 

It  was  pleasant  in  the  cool  of  night 
thus  to  run  down  through  the  blackness, 
shouting  aloud  to  guide  our  followers, 
swinging  to  the  slope,  bathed  t9  the  soul 
in  mysteries  of  which  we  had  no  time  to 
take  cognizance. 

By  and  by  we  saw  a  little  spark  far 
ahead  of  us  like  a  star.  The  smell  of  fresh 
wood  smoke  and  stale  damp  fire  came 
to  our  nostrils.  We  gained  the  star  and 
found  it  to  be  a  log  smoldering ;  and  up 
the  hill  other  stars  red  as  blood.  So  we 
knew  that  we  had  crossed  the  zone  of 
an  almost  extinct  forest  fire,  and  looked 
on  the  scattered  camp-fires  of  an  army 
of  destruction. 

The  moon  rose.  We  knew  it  by 
touches  of  white  light  on  peaks  infinitely 
far  above  us  ;  not  at  all  by  the  relieving 
of  the  heavy  velvet  blackness  in  which 
we  moved.  After  a  time,  I,  running 
ahead  in  my  turn,  became  aware  of  the 
deep  breathing  of  animals.  I  stopped 
short  and  called  a  warning.  Immedi 
ately  a  voice  answered  me. 

"  Come  on,  straight  ahead.  They're 
not  on  the  road." 

When  within  five  feet  I  made  out  the 
huge  freight  wagons  in  which  were  lying 
the  teamsters,  and  very  dimly  the  big 
freight  mules  standing  tethered  to  the 
wheels. 

"  It's  a  dark  night,  friend,  and  you're 
out  late." 

"  A  dark  night,"  I  agreed,  and  plunged 
on.  Behind  me  rattled  and  banged  the 
abused  buckboard,  snorted  the  half-wild 
broncos,  groaned  the  unrepaired  brake, 
softly  cursed  my  companions. 

Then  at  once  the  abrupt  descent 
ceased.  We  glided  out  to  the  silvered 
flat,  above  which  sailed  the  moon. 

The  hour  was  seen  to  be  half  past 
one.  We  had  missed  our  train.  Noth 
ing  was  visible  of  human  habitations. 
The  land  was  frosted  with  the  moonlight, 


enchanted  by  it,  etherealized.  Behind 
us,  huge  and  formidable,  loomed  the 
black  mass  of  the  range  we  had  de 
scended.  Before  us,  thin  as  smoke  in 
the  magic  lucence  that  flooded  the  world, 
rose  other  mountains,  very  great,  lofty 
as  the  sky.  We  could  not  understand 
them.  The  descent  we  had  just  accom 
plished  should  have  landed  us  on  a  level 
plain  in  which  lay  our  town.  But  here 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  pocket  valley 
entirely  surrounded  by  mountain  ranges 
through  which  there  seemed  to  be  no 
pass  less  than  five  or  six  thousand  feet 
in  height. 

We  reined  in  the  horses  to  figure  it 
out. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be,"  said  I. 
"  We've  certainly  come  far  enough.  It 
would  take  us  four  hours  at  the  very 
least  to  cross  that  range,  even  if  the 
railroad  should  happen  to  be  on  the 
other  side  of  it." 

"  I  been  through  here  only  once," 
repeated  the  driver — "  going  the  other 
way.  Then  I  drew  a  corpse."  He  spat, 
and  added  as  an  afterthought,  "  Beau-i\- 
ful  Cal-if-or-nia !" 

We  stared  at  the  mountains  that 
hemmed  us  in.  They  rose  above  us 
sheer  and  forbidding.  In  the  bright 
moonlight  plainly  were  to  be  descried 
the  brush  of  the  foothills,  the  timber, 
the  fissures,  the  canons,  the  granites, 
and  the  everlasting  snows. 

Almost  we  thought  to  make  out  a 
mere  thread  of  a  water-fall  high  up 
where  the  clouds  would  be  if  the  night 
had  not  been  clear. 

"  We  got  off  the  trail  somewhere," 
hazarded  the  Tenderfoot. 

•'  Well,  we're  on  a  road,  anyway,"  I 
pointed  out  to  him.  "  It's  bound  to  go 
somewhere.  We  might  as  well  give  up 
the  railroad  and  find  a  place  to  turn  in." 

"  It  can't  be  far,"  encouraged  the 
Tenderfoot ;  "  this  valley  can't  be  more 
than  a  few  miles  across." 

"  Gi-dap  ?"  remarked  the  driver. 

We  moved  forward  down  the  white 
wagon  trail  approaching  the  mountains. 
And  then  we  were  witnesses  of  the  most 
marvelous  transformation.  For  as  we 
neared  them,  those  impregnable  moun 
tains,  as  though  panic-stricken  by  our 
advance,  shrunk  back,  dissolved,  dwin- 


188 


The  Outlook 


[17  September 


died,  went  to  pieces.  Where  had  tow 
ered  ten-thousand-foot  peaks,  perfect  in 
the  regular  succession  from  timber  to 
snow,  now  were  little  flat  hills  on  which 
grew  tiny  bushes  of  sage.  A  passage 
opened  between  them.  In  a  hundred 
yards  we  had  gained  the  open  country, 
leaving  behind  us  the  mighty  but  unreal 
necromancies  of  the  moon. 

Before   us   gleamed    red    and   green 


lights.  The  mass  of  houses  showed 
half  distinguishable.  A  feeble  glimmer 
illuminated  part  of  a  white  sign  above 
the  depot.  That  which  remained  invis 
ible  was  evidently  the  name  of  the  town. 
That  which  was  revealed  was  the  supple 
mentary  information  which  the  Southern 
Pacific  furnishes  to  its  patrons.  It  read : 
"  Elevation  482  feet."  We  were  defi 
nitely  out  of  the  mountains.  •« 


XXIL— The   Lure  of  the   Trail 


THE  trail's  call  depends  not  at  all 
on  your  common  sense.  You 
know  you  are  a  fool  for  answer 
ing  it;  and  yet  you  go.  The  comforts 
of  civilization,  to  put  the  case  on  its 
lowest  plane,  are  not  lightly  to  be  re 
nounced  :  the  ease  of  having  your  physi 
cal  labor  done  for  you ;  the  joy  of  culti 
vated  minds,  of  theaters,  of  books,  of 
participation  in  the  world's  progress; 
these  you  leave  behind  you.  And  in 
exchange  you  enter  a  life  where  there  is 
much  long  hard  work  of  the  hands — 
work  that  is  really  hard  and  long,  so 
that  no  man  paid  to  labor  would  con 
sider  it  for  a  moment ;  you  undertake  to 
eat  simply,  to  endure  much,  to  lie  on 
the  rack  of  anxiety ;  you  voluntarily 
place  yourself  where  cold,  wet,  hunger, 
thirst,  heat,  monotony,  danger,  and  many 
discomforts  will  wait  upon  you  daily. 
A  thousand  times  in  the  course  of  a 
woods  life  even  the  stoutest-hearted  will 
tell  himself  softly — very  softly  if  he  is 
really  stout-hearted,  so  that  others  may 
not  be  annoyed — that  if  ever  the  fates 
permit  him  to  extricate  himself  he  will 
never  venture  again. 

These  times  come  when  long  continu 
ance  has  worn  on  the  spirit.  You  beat 
all  day  to  windward  against  the  tide 
toward  what  should  be  but  an  hour's 
sail :  the  sea  is  high  and  the  spray  cold ; 
there  are  sunken  rocks,  and  food  there 
is  none ;  chill  gray  evening  draws  dan 
gerously  near,  and  there  is  a  foot  of 
water  in  the  bilge.  You  have  swallowed 
your  tongue  twenty  times  on  the  alkali ; 
and  the  sun  is  melting  hot,  and  the  dust 
dry  and  pervasive,  and  there  is  no  water, 
and  for  all  your  effort  the  relative  dis 
tances  seem  to  remain  the  same  for 


days.  You  have  carried  a  pack  until 
your  every  muscle  is  strung  white-hot ; 
the  woods  are  breathless;  the  black 
flies  swarm  persistently  and  bite  until 
your  face  is  covered  with  blood.  You 
have  struggled  through  clogging  snow 
until  each  time  you  raise  your  snowshoe 
you  feel  as  though  some  one  had  stabbed 
a  little  sharp  knife  into  your  groin ;  it  has 
come  to  be  night ;  the  mercury  is  away 
below  zero,  and  with  aching  fingers  you 
are  to  prepare  a  camp  which  is  only  an 
anticipation  of  many  more  such  camps 
in  the  ensuing  days.  For  a  week  it  has 
rained,  so  that  you,  pushing  through  the 
dripping  brush,  are  soaked  and  sodden 
and  comfortless,  and  the  bushes  have 
become  horrible  to  your  shrinking  goose- 
flesh.  Or  you  are  just  plain  tired  out, 
not  from  a  single  day's  fatigue,  but  from 
the  gradual  exhaustion  of  a  long  hike. 
Then  in  your  secret  soul  you  utter  these 
sentiments : — 

"You  are  a  fool.  This  is  not  fun. 
There  is  no  real  reason  why  you  should 
do  this.  If  you  ever  get  out  of  here, 
you  will  stick  right  home  where  common 
sense  flourishes,  my  son  !" 

Then  after  a  time  you  do  get  out,  and 
are  thankful.  But  in  three  months  you 
will  have  proved  in  your  own  experience 
the  following  axiom — I  should  call  it 
the  widest  truth  the  wilderness  has  to 
teach : — 

"  In  memory  the  pleasures  of  a  camp 
ing  trip  strengthen  with  time,  and  the 
disagreeables  weaken." 

I  don't  care  how  hard  an  experience 
you  have  had,  nor  how  little  of  the  pleas 
ant  has  been  mingled  with  it,  in  three 
months  your  general  impression  of  that 
trip  will  be  good.  You  will  look  back 


1904] 


The  Situation  in  Santo  Domingo 


189 


on  the  hard  times  with  a  certain  fond 
ness  of  recollection. 

I  remember  one  trip  I  took  in  the 
early  spring  following  a  long  drive  on 
the  Pine  River.  It  rained  steadily  for 
six  days.  We  were  soaked  to  the  skin 
all  the  time,  ate  standing  up  in  the  driv 
ing  downpour,  and  slept  wet.  So  cold 
was  it  that  each  morning  our  blankets 
were  so  full  of  frost  that  they  crackled 
stiffly  when  we  turned  out.  Dispassion 
ately  I  can  appraise  that  as  about  the 
worst  I  ever  got  into.  Yet  as  an  im 
pression  the  Pine  River  trip  seems  to 
me  a  most  enjoyable  one. 

So  after  you  have  been  home  for  a 
little  while  the  call  begins  to  make  itself 
heard.  At  first  it  is  very  gentle.  But 
little  by  little  a  restlessness  seizes  hold 
of  you.  You  do  not  know  exactly  what 
is  the  matter :  you  are  aware  merely 
that  your  customary  life  has  lost  savor, 
that  you  are  doing  things  more  or  less 
perfunctorily,  and  that  you  are  a  little 


more  irritable  than  your  naturally  evil 
disposition.  And  gradually  it  is  borne 
in  on  you  exactly  what  is  the  matter. 
Then  say  you  to  yourself  : — 

"  My  son,  you  know  better.  You  are 
no  tenderfoot.  You  have  had  too  long 
an  experience  to  admit  of  any  glamor  of 
indefiniteness  about  this  thing.  No  use 
bluffing.  You  know  exactly  how  hard 
you  will  have  to  work,  and  how  much 
tribulation  you  are  going  to  get  into, 
and  how  hungry  and  wet  and  cold  and 
tired  and  generally  frazzled  out  you  are 
going  to  be.  You've  been  there  enough, 
times  so  it's  pretty  clearly  impressed  on 
you.  You  go  into  this  thing  with  your 
eyes  open.  You  know  what  you're  in 
for.  You're  pretty  well  off  right  here, 
and  you'd  be  a  fool  to  go." 

"  That's  right,"  says  yourself  to  you. 
"  You're  dead  right  about  it,  old  man. 
Do  you  know  where  we  can  get  another 
pack-mule  ?" 

THE    END 


The   Situation   in   Santo   Domingo 

By  Sigmund  Krausz 


AGAIN  one  of  the  protracted, 
bloody  periods  of  unrest  and 
open  revolution  which  for  years 
have  made  Santo  Domingo  a  veritable 
hell  for  its  population,  and  a  standing 
menace  to  the  peaceable  relations  of  the 
United  States  with  some  of  the  Euro 
pean  powers,  has  apparently  come  to  an 
end.  The  last  of  the  turmoils — a  long 
and  bitter  fight  between  Generals  Jim 
enez  and  Morales — is  over,  leaving  the 
latter  in  possession  of  the  battlefield  ; 
and,  for  the  moment  at  least,  there  is  no 
pretender  to  dispute  or  question  his 
supremacy. 

This  satisfactory  result  has  been 
brought  about  partly  by  the  friendly 
attitude  of  the  neighboring  Haytian  gov 
ernment,  which  allowed  the  landing  on 
its  territory  of  Morales's  troops  to  be 
used  against  the  little  army  of  Jimenez 
holding  Monte  Cristi,  and  partly  by 
the  mediation  of  the  commander  of  the 
United  States  gunboat  Detroit,  stationed 
in  Dominican  waters,  who  induced  the 
remnants  of  the  revolutionary  forces  to 


surrender  to  the  provisional  government 
on  certain  conditions. 

Since  the  achievement  of  this  gratify 
ing  event  Morales  has,  in  due  form,  been 
elected  President  of  Santo  Domingo, 
with  General  Ramon  Caceres  in  the 
Vice-Presidential  chair,  and  has  sur 
rounded  himself  with  a  staff  of  Cabinet 
officers  as  good  as  can  be  found  in  a 
country  where,  as  a  rule,  every  govern 
ment  official  holds  office  for  the  purpose 
of  graft  only.  Reforms  in  this  direction, 
as  well  as  in  others,  have  been  promised 
by  Morales,  and  his  first  message  to  the 
"  Congreso  Nacional,"  dated  June  19, 
1904,  a  copy  of  which  lies  before  me, 
reiterates  all  the  good  intentions  and 
assurances  expressed  in  a  personal  inter 
view  I  had  with  him  at  Santo  Domingo 
City  shortly  before  his  regular  election  as 
chief  of  the  government. 

Promises  are  made  to  be  broken,  and 
a  proverb  says  that  the  road  to  hell  is 
paved  with  good  intentions,  but  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  in  the  Morales  case  they  will 
lead  to  a  haven  of  peace  and  prosperity, 


190 


The  Outlook 


[J7  September 


for  there  surely  has  been  hell  enough 
in  Santo  Domingo  ever  since,  in  1844, 
it  became  an  independent  republic. 
There  is,  in  fact,  good  reason  for  a 
favorable  augury,  for,  since  the  assassi 
nation  of  President  Heureaux  in  1899 
Santo  Domingo  had  no  stronger  man  to 
rule  its  destinies  than  its  present  chief, 
who  combines  force  of  character  with 
more  enlightened  views  than  any  of  his 
predecessors.  This  hope  is  further  jus 
tified  by  Morales  having  the  advantage 
of  the  moral  support  of  the  United 
States,  who  in  future  will  see  to  it  that 
no  contraband  of  arms  and  ammunition, 
on  behalf  of  insurgents,  are  shipped  to 
the  island  from  American  ports. 

It  is,  of  course,  impossible  to  prog 
nosticate  definitely  that  Morales  will 
succeed  in  safely  steering  his  ship  of 
state  between  the  many  and  dangerous 
cliffs  of  official  dishonesty,  dissatisfac 
tion  of  certain  elements  out  of  power, 
foreign  creditors,  and'conditions  imposed 
by  the  Monroe  Doctrine  of  the  United 
States  ;  and  for  this  reason  the  person 
ality  of  the  present  incumbent  of  the 
presidential  chair  of  Santo  Domingo, 
who,  under  certain  conditions,  may 
usurpate  dictatorial  power,  is  of  para 
mount  interest  to  the  American  people, 
who,  more  than  any  other  nation,  aside 
from  the  Dominicans  themselves,  are 
concerned  in  the  preservation  of  peace 
and  the  development  of  civilization  and 
progress  in  the  island. 

Before  discussing,  however,  Morales 
himself,  I  desire  to  correct  a  few  mis 
taken  impressions  in  regard  to  the  coun 
try  and  its  people. 

The  common  idea  that  the  population 
of  Santo  Domingo  consists  exclusively 
of  a  horde  of  savages,  and  that  the  gen 
erals  and  politicians  causing  the  kalei 
doscopic  sequence  of  revolutions  are  of 
the  same  class,  and,  without  exception, 
uneducated  brutes  and  degenerates,  is 
quite  erroneous,  and  has  been  created 
for  the  sake  of  sensationalism,  largely 
by  journalists  and  magazine  writers 
without  personal  knowledge  of  Domini 
can  conditions,  or  by  native  exiles  who, 
naturally,  are  always  enemies  of  the 
party  in  power. 

This  impression  is  so  general  in  the 
United  States  that  even  the  editor  of 


one  of  the  largest  dailies  in  New  York 
City,  with  whom  the  writer  conferred 
about  Santo  Domingo,  expressed  himself 
in  regard  to  its  population  as  "  a  horde 
of  naked  niggers  who  have  some  sort  of 
a  government,  and  whose  chief  occupa 
tion  is  murdering  each  other  in  an  effort 
for  the  control  of  the  offices." 

While  it  is  true  that  the  vast  majority 
of  the  Dominican  people  in  the  interior 
of  the  island  live  in  a  fearful  state  of 
ignorance,  superstition,  and  even  bar 
barism,  caused  by  many  decades  of  in 
ternal  warfare,  there  is,  however,  also  a 
class  of  natives  who  certainly  ought  not 
to  be  thrown  in  the  same  pot  with  them. 
These  are  the  better  citizens  of  the  capi 
tal  and  the  larger  coast  towns,  among 
whom  are  many  intelligent  and  educated 
men  who  had  the  advantage  of  fairly 
good  schools  and  intercourse  with  for 
eigners. 

Among  this  class  are  a  number  who 
have  received  all  or  part  of  their  educa 
tion  abroad,  who  speak  two  or  three 
languages,  and  who,  in  their  social  inter 
course  and  manners,  may  safely  be  pro 
nounced  gentlemen.  They  follow  the 
occupations  of  merchants,  planters,  law 
yers,  physicians,  etc.,  and  while,  as  a 
rule,  they  keep  aloof  from  politics,  it  is 
from  their  strata  of  society  that  spring 
most  of  the  military  and  political  lead 
ers  of  Santo  Domingo. 

There  are  few  of  these  men  who,  by 
their  appearance,  betray  the  strain  of 
negro  blood  in  them,  and  the  type  is 
hardly  distinguishable  from  that  of  Latin- 
Americans  in  general.  In  fact,  so  much 
has  the  colored  blood  been  diluted  in 
the  propagation  of  a  couple  of  centuries 
that  the  features  of  many  of  the  higher 
class  of  Dominicans  often  present  almost 
as  pure  a  type  as  that  of  the  proudest 
Creoles  of  the  West  Indies,  whose  polite 
ness  and  good  manners  they  also  fre 
quently  exhibit. 

The  Dominicans  have  often  been  ac 
cused  of  lack  of  civic  virtues,  but  there 
is 'no  doubt  as  to  their  patriotism,  and  a 
people  that  possess  this  noble  civic  qual 
ity  should  not  be  called  altogether  sav 
age  and  barbaric.  Their  patriotism, 
however,  has  manifested  itself  until  now 
in  a  wrong  way,  being  largely  directed 
by  unscrupulous  leaders,  who  split  the 


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